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®(d  Wotl!)  Setiee 


BALLADES  IN  BLUE  CHINA 
OTHER  POEMS 


TO  THE  READER 

"Laughter  and  song  the  poet  brings^ 
And  lends  them  form  and  gives  them  wings  ; 
Then  sets  his  chirping  squadron  free 
To  post  at  will  hy  land  or  sea^ 
And  find  their  home^  if  that  may  he, 

Laughter  and  song  this  poety  too, 

O  IVestern  brothers,  sends  to  you : 

With  doubtful  flight  the  darting  train 
Have  crossed  the  bleak  Atlantic  main,  — 
Now  warm  them  in  your  hearts  again! 

AUSTIN    DOB  SON. 

1884. 


BALLADES  IN  BLUE  CHINA 
AND  OTHER  POEMS  BY 

ANDREW  LANG 


PortlancI,  Maine 
TH03MJ9S  a  740SHE^ 

Mdccccvij 


Tbii  First  Edition  on 
Van  G elder  paper  con- 
sists of  925  copies. 


GIFT 


CONTENTS 


^55 

r 


Ballade  by  Frederick  Pollock  .  3 
Ballades  in  Blue  China: 

ballade  dedicatory  ...  5 

ballade  of  blue  china  .   .  7 

ballade  to  theocritus   .    .  9 

ballade  of  cleopatra^s  needle  ii 

ballade  of  roulette    .   .  1 3 

ballade  of  sleep   .   .   .  1 5 

ballade  of  the  midnight  forest  1 7 

ballade  of  the  book-hunter  .  i9 
ballade  of  the  voyage  to 

CYTHERA 21 

BALLADE  OF  THE    MUSE    '        .  .  23 

BALLADE   OF   DEAD   CITIES       .  .  2$ 

BALLADE   OF   AUTUMN     ...  27 

BALLADE   OF  TRUE   WISDOM  .  29 

BALLADE   OF   LIFE  .  .  .  3I 

BALLADE   OF   DEAD   LADIES     .  .  33 

VILLON'S  BALLADE  OF  GOOD  COUNSEL  35 

BALLADE   OF  THE   BOOKWORM  .  37 

BALLADE   OF   OLD   PLAYS  .  .  39 


317 


CONTENTS 


Ballades  in  Blue  China: 

ballade  of  his  books        .        .  4i 

ballade  of  the  dream      .        .  43 

ballade  of  blind  love     .        .  45 

ballade  of  middle  age     .        .  47 

ballade  of  worldly  wealth  .  49 
ballade   of   his   choice   of  a 

sepulchre  ....  50 

ballade  en  guise  de  rondeau'  5 1 

dizain  by  austin  dobson  .  52 

Verses  Vain  : 

almae  matres      ....  55 

A   DREAM 57 

desiderium 58 

ronsard's  grave  •        •        •  59 

ROMANCE 61 

VILLANELLE 62 

TRIOLETS   AFTER    MOSCHUS      .  .  63 

IN   TINTAGEL  ....  64 

PISIDICE 65 

A   PORTRAIT  OF    1 783       ...  67 

FROM   THE   EAST  TO  THE   WEST      .  69 

THE   MOON*S   MINION        .  .  .  70 

VILLANELLE  TO   LUCIA   .  .  .  7 1 

N-^i/c/iOs  ^Atibv  .....  72 

THE   SPINET 73 


CONTENTS 


Sonnets  : 


HOMER     

77 

HOMERIC   UNITY      . 

.           78 

THE   ODYSSEY 

79 

IN    ITHACA        .... 

80 

bion 

81 

HERODOTUS   IN    EGYPT    . 

82 

SPRING    (AFTER   MELEAGER) 

83 

IDEAL        

84 

NATURAL  THEOLOGY 

85 

SHE 

86 

BEFORE   THE   SNOW 

87 

THE   BURIAL   OF   MOLIl^RE 

88 

SAN   TERENZO             .            .           .           . 

89 

love's   EASTER          .           .           .           . 

90 

TWILIGHT 

91 

AN    OLD   GARDEN      .           .           .           . 

92 

GRASS   OF   PARNASSUS       . 

93 

Three  Letters  to  Dead  Authors: 
i    to  mr.  alexander  pope      .        97 

II      TO   LORD   BYRON       .  .  .         lOI 

III      TO   OMAR   KHAYYAm  .  .         I06 

Rhymes  Old  and  New: 


TO  E.  m.  s.     . 

A    SCOT  TO  JEANNE   D*ARC 
SEEKERS  FOR  A   CITY       . 


Ill 
112 
114 


CONTENTS 


Rhymes  Old  and  New: 


TO   RHODOCLEIA   ON    HER   SINGING 

ANOTHER   WAY 

CLEVEDON    CHURCH 

MARTIAL   IN   TOWN 

SCYTHE   SONG 

THE   SONG    OF   ORPHEUS 

FROM    OMAR    KHAYYAm 

LES    ROSES    DE   sIdI 

THE    HAUNTED   TOWER 

BOAT-SONG 

LOST    LOVE 

THE    PROMISE   OF    HELEN 

ON   CALAIS   SANDS   . 

POSCIMUR 

ON  THE  GARLAND  TO  RHODOCLEIA 

A    GALLOWAY    GARLAND 

ZIMBABWE 

TUSITALA 

VALE 


Notes 


117 
120 
121 

123 
125 
126 
127 
129 
130 
132 
^33 
134 
135 
136 

137 
138 
139 
140 
141 

143 


BALLADES  IN  BLUE  CHINA 


"  Rondeaux,  Ballades, 
Chansons  y  drains ,  propos  menus y 
Compte  mojy  quHl^  sont  devenu{  : 
Se  faict  il  plus  Hen  de  nouveau  ?  " 

Clement  Marot,  Dialogue  de  deux 
Amoureux. 

"  I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well ;  if  it  be  doleful 
matter,  merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing 
indeed,  and  sung  lamentably." 

A  Winter's  Tale,  Act  iv.  sc.  3. 


A  BALLADE  OF  XXII  BALLADES 

FRIEND,  wbenj^ou  hear  a  care-dulled  eye^ 
And  brow  perplexed  with  things  of  weighty 
And  fain  would  hid  some  charm  untie 
The  honds  that  hold  you  all  too  strait^ 
behold  a  solace  to  your  fate, 
y^ rapped  in  this  coverts  china  hlue; 
These  ballades  fresh  and  delicate^ 
This  dainty  troop  of  twenty-two  ! 

The  mind,  unwearied,  longs  to  fly 
And  commune  with  the  wise  and  great ; 
But  that  same  ether,  rare  and  high, 
Vfhich  glorifies  its  worthy  mate. 
To  breath  forspent  is  disparate  : 
'Laughing  and  light  and  airv-new 
These\come  to  tickle  the  dull  pate. 
This  dainty  troop  of  twenty-two, 

yiost  welcome  then,  when  you  and  I, 
Forestalling  days  for  mirth  too  late, 
To  quips  and  cranks  and  fantasy 
Some  choice  half -hour  dedicate, 
Thev  weave  their  dance  with  measured  rate 
Of  rhymes  enlinked  in  order  due. 


Hill  frowns  relax  and  cares  abate y 
This  dainty  troop  of  twentjf-two, 

ENVOY 

V  rimes,  of  toys  that  please  your  state 
(Quainter  are  surely  none  to  view 
Than  these  which  pass  with  tripping  gait, 
This  dainty  troop  of  twenty-two. 

FREDERICK   POLLOCK. 


BALLADE  DEDICATORY 

TO 

MRS.    ELTON 
OF  WHITE   STAUNTON 

THE  painted  Briton  built  his  mound, 
And  left  his  celts  and  clay, 
On  yon  fair  slope  of  sunlit  ground 
That  fronts  your  garden  gay ; 
The  Roman  came,  he  bore  the  sway, 
He  bullied,  bought,  and  sold. 
Your  fountain  sweeps  his  works  away 
Beside  your  manor  old ! 

But  still  his  crumbling  urns  are  found 

Within  the  window-bay, 

Where  once  he  listened  to  the  sound 

That  lulls  you  day  by  day ;  — 

The  sound  of  summer  winds  at  play. 

The  noise  of  waters  cold 

To  Yarty  wandering  on  their  way. 

Beside  your  manor  old  1 

The  Roman  fell:  his  firm-set  bound 

Became  the  Saxon's  stay ; 

The  bells  made  music  all  around 

For  monks  in  cloisters  grey. 

Till  fled  the  monks  in  disarray 

From  their  warm  chantry's  fold, 


Old  Abbots  slumber  as  they  may, 
Beside  your  manor  old  1 


Creeds,  empires,  peoples,  all  decay, 
Down  into  darkness,  rolled ; 
May  life  that's  fleet  be  sweet,  I  pray. 
Beside  your  manor  old. 


BALLADE  OF  BLUE  CHINA 

There's  a  joy  without  canker  or  cark, 
There's  a  pleasure  eternally  new, 
*Tis  to  gloat  on  the  glaze  and  the  mark 
Of  china  that's  ancient  and  blue ; 
Unchipp'd  all  the  centuries  through 
It  has  pass'd,  since  the  chime  of  it  rang, 
And  they  fashion'd  it,  figure  and  hue. 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 

These  dragons  ( their  tails,  you  remark, 
Into  bunches  of  gillyflowers  grew), — 
When  Noah  came  out  of  the  ark. 
Did  these  lie  in  wait  for  his  crew  ? 
They  snorted,  they  snapp'd,  and  they  slew; 
They  were  mighty  of  fin  and  of  fang. 
And  their  portraits  Celestials  drew 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 

Here's  a  pot  with  a  cot  in  a  park. 

In  a  park  where  the  peach -blossoms  blew, 

Where  the  lovers  eloped  in  the  dark, 

Lived,  died,  and  were  changed  into  two 

Bright  birds  that  eternally  flew 

Through  the  boughs  of  the  may,  as  they  sang ; 

'Tis  a  tale  was  undoubtedly  true 

In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 


Come,  snarl  at  my  ecstasies,  do. 
Kind  critic,  your  ** tongue  has  a  tang" 
But  —  a  sage  never  heeded  a  shrew 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 


BALLADE  TO  THEOCRITUS,  IN  WINTER 

icropCjv  rkv  ^iKeXhp  is  &Xa> 

Id.  viii.  56. 

AH  I  leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  roar 
Of  London,  and  the  bustling  street, 
For  still,  by  the  Sicilian  shore. 
The  murmur  of  the  Muse  is  sweet. 
Still,  still,  the  suns  of  summer  greet 
The  mountain-grave  of  Helike, 
And  shepherds  still  their  songs  repeat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

What  though  they  worship  Pan  no  more, 
That  guarded  once  the  shepherd's  seat. 
They  chatter  of  their  rustic  lore. 
They  watch  the  wind  among  the  wheat : 
Cicalas  chirp,  the  young  lambs  bleat, 
Where  whispers  pine  to  cypress  tree ; 
They  count  the  waves  that  idly  beat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

Theocritus  I  thou  canst  restore 
The  pleasant  years,  and  over-fleet ; 
With  thee  we  live  as  men  of  yore, 
We  rest  where  running  waters  meet : 
And  then  we  turn  unwilling  feet 
And  seek  the  world  —  so  must  it  be  — 
fVg  may  not  linger  in  the  heat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea  1 


Master,  —  when  rain,  and  snow,  and  sleet 
And  northern  winds  are  wild,  to  thee 
We  come,  we  rest  in  thy  retreat, 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea  1 


lO 


BALLADE  OF  CLEOPATRA'S  NEEDLE 

YE  giant  shades  of  Ra  and  Tum, 
Ye  ghosts  of  gods  Egyptian, 
If  murmurs  of  our  planet  come 
To  exiles  in  the  precincts  wan 
Where,  fetish  or  Olympian, 
To  help  or  harm  no  more  ye  list, 
Look  down,  if  look  ye  may,  and  scan 
This  monument  in  London  mist ! 

Behold,  the  hieroglyphs  are  dumb 
That  once  were  read  of  him  that  ran 
When  seistron,  cymbal,  trump,  and  drum 
Wild  music  of  the  Bull  began ; 
When  through  the  chanting  priestly  clan 
Walked  Ramses,  and  the  high  sun  kiss'd 
This  stone,  with  blessing  scored  and  ban  — 
This  monument  in  London  mist. 

The  stone  endures  though  gods  be  numb ; 
Though  human  effort,  plot,  and  plan 
Be  sifted,  drifted,  like  the  sum 
Of  sands  in  wastes  Arabian. 
What  king  may  deem  him  more  than  man. 
What  priest  says  Faith  can  Time  resist 
While  this  endures  to  mark  their  span  — 
This  monument  in  London  mist  t 


Prince,  the  stone's  shade  on  your  divan 
Falls ;  it  is  longer  that  ye  wist : 
It  preaches,  as  Time's  gnomon  can, 
This  monument  in  London  mist  1 


12 


BALLADE  OF  ROULETTE 


THIS  life  —  one  was  thinking  to-day, 
In  the  midst  of  a  medley  of  fancies  - 
Is  a  game,  and  the  board  where  we  play 
Green  earth  with  her  poppies  and  pansies. 
Let  manque  be  faded  romances. 
Be  passe  remorse  and  regret ; 
Hearts  dance  with  the  wheel  as  it  dances  - 
The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette. 

The  lover  will  stake  as  he  may 

His  heart  on  his  Peggies  and  Nancies; 

The  girl  has  her  beauty  to  lay ; 

The  saint  has  his  prayers  and  his  trances ; 

The  poet  bets  endless  expanses 

In  Dreamland ;  the  scamp  has  his  debt : 

How  they  gaze  at  the  wheel  as  it  glances  - 

The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette  I 

The  Kaiser  will  stake  his  array 

Of  sabres,  of  Krupps,  and  of  lances ; 

An  Englishman  punts  with  his  pay, 

And  glory  ih^jeton  of  France  is ; 

Your  artists,  or  Whistlers  or  Vances, 

Have  voices  or  colours  to  bet ; 

Will  you  moan  that  its  motion  askance  is  - 

The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette  ? 


13 


The  prize  that  the  pleasure  enhances  ? 
The  prize  is  —  at  last  to  forget 
The  changes,  the  chops,  and  the  chances  - 
The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette. 


^Ana  »d  lui  tijtfito  fljw  li^vol  9ti 


X^-Ui  dd  i^MU 


14 


BALLADE  OF  SLEEP 

THE  hours  are  passing  slow, 
I  hear  their  weary  tread 
Clang  from  the  tower,  and  go 
Back  to  their  kinsfolk  dead. 
Sleep  1  death's  twin  brother  dread  1 
Why  dost  thou  scorn  me  so  ? 
The  wind's  voice  overhead 
Long  wakeful  here  I  know. 
And  music  from  the  steep 
Where  waters  fall  and  flow. 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me,  Sleep  ? 

All  sounds  that  might  bestow 
Rest  on  the  fever' d  bed, 
All  slumb'rous  sounds  and  low 
Are  mingled  here  and  wed, 
And  bring  no  drowsihed. 
Shy  dreams  flit  to  and  fro 
With  shadowy  hair  dispread ; 
With  wistful  eyes  that  glow. 
And  silent  robes  that  sweep. 
Thou  wilt  not  hear  me ;  no  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me.  Sleep  ? 

What  cause  hast  thou  to  show 
Of  sacrifice  unsped  ? 
Of  all  thy  slaves  below 
I  most  have  laboured 
With  service  sung  and  said ; 


15 


Have  cuird  such  buds  as  blow, 
Soft  poppies  white  and  red, 
Where  thy  still  gardens  grow, 
And  Lethe's  waters  weep. 
Why,  then,  art  thou  my  foe  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me,  Sleep  ? 


Prince,  ere  the  dark  be  shred 
By  golden  shafts,  ere  low 
And  long  the  shadows  creep : 
Lord  of  the  wand  of  lead, 
Soft -footed  as  the  snow, 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me.  Sleep ! 


i6 


BALLADE  OF  THE  lOBKlGHT  FOREST 

Aim  THtOWMM  DS  BOHnUJI 


QTiLLsiictkefl 
O    BcBodlitkei 

IDCidli«Ute««iQf0ld» 

skodb  of  Aon  and  koDy^tioe; 

The  west  w»d  Ira 

rthw  lyi  tfcf,  pio  Mid  cold. 

Andwolfessliadi 

oidDinAnMnii^lioe 

Inaecietvoodbad 

IwUkkroQi^Mj. 

TSsthoni^Aepc 

HMls' Innoli  kMm  kernto 

Wheniiovtkewal 

d»«wrboiindiii«li^^t. 

And  fint  tiie  ■«» 

OK  bioifa  Ike  doi^  8*7* 

Thendowm^edd 

!«,  wkk  Uom  soft  iMir  aid  biUit, 

And  thnm^  tiie  &■  wood  Dim  tkmdi  ker  vmj. 

With  water-weedi  tviMd  a  Aev  kxlB  of  cold 

The  stiai^  coU  loRM-fiMdes  diaoe  m  gfee. 

Sylphs  OTcr4BMMOos  lad  ovcr-bold 

Hannt  the  dak  koloai  wkoe  tke  dwaf  aaj  be. 

The  wOd  red  dwa^  tke  i 

Then  'mid  tkdr  sMk,  a 

The  sadden  Goddas  cai 

With  one  kng  i^g^  ior  snaan  pmTd  aay ; 

The  swift  feet  tea  tke  iwy  mdtg  oai%^t 

And  through  tke  dfai  wood  Dia  tkieadi  ker  wmj. 


Sheg^eaakeraNm 

tiofUe 

i;  down  tke  wold 

SheheantkesoUa^ 

r  of  tke 

stagitkatiee 

Mixed  widi  tke  aak 

of  tke] 

koaasi^4 

Butherddaktii^: 

aankfl 

ST« 

17 


And  naught  of  ruth  and  pity  wotteth  she 
More  than  her  hounds  that  follow  on  the  flight ; 
The  goddess  draws  a  golden  bow  of  might 
And  thick  she  rains  the  gentle  shafts  that  slay. 
She  tosses  loose  her  locks  upon  the  night, 
And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 


Prince,  let  us  leave  the  din,  the  dust,  the  spite. 

The  gloom  and  glare  of  towns,  the  plague,  the  blight : 

Amid  the  forest  leaves  and  fountain  spray 

There  is  the  mystic  home  of  our  delight, 

And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 


i8 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOK-HUNTER 

IN  torrid  heats  of  late  July, 
In  March,  beneath  the  bitter  bise^ 
He  book -hunts  while  the  loungers  fly,  — 
He  book -hunts,  though  December  freeze; 
In  breeches  baggy  at  the  knees, 
And  heedless  of  the  public  jeers. 
For  these,  for  these,  he  hoards  his  fees, — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

No  dismal  stall  escapes  his  eye. 

He  turns  o'er  tomes  of  low  degrees. 

There  soiled  romanticists  may  lie, 

Or  Restoration  comedies ; 

Each  tract  that  flutters  in  the  breeze 

For  him  is  charged  with  hopes  and  fears. 

In  mouldy  novels  fancy  sees 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

With  restless  eyes  that  peer  and  spy. 
Sad  eyes  that  heed  not  skies  nor  trees, 
In  dismal  nooks  he  loves  to  pry, 
Whose  motto  evermore  is  Spes  I 
But  ah !  the  fabled  treasure  flees ; 
Grown  rarer  with  the  fleeting  years, 
In  rich  men's  shelves  they  take  their  ease,  — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs  1 


19 


ENVOY 


Prince,  all  the  things  that  tease  and  please,  — 
Fame,  hope,  wealth,  kisses,  cheers,  and  tears, 
What  are  they  but  such  toys  as  these  — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs  ? 


BALLADE  OF  THE  VOYAGE  TO  CYTHERA 

AFTER   THEODORE    DE   BANVILLE 

1KNOW  Cythera  long  is  desolate; 
I  know  the  winds  have  stripped  the  gardens  green. 
Alas,  my  friends  !  beneath  the  fierce  sun's  weight 
A  barren  reef  lies  where  Love's  flowers  have  been, 
Nor  ever  lover  on  that  coast  is  seen ! 
So  be  it,  but  we  seek  a  fabled  shore, 
To  lull  our  vague  desires  with  mystic  lore, 
To  wander  where  Love's  labyrinths  beguile; 
There  let  us  land,  there  dream  for  evermore : 
"  It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle." 

The  sea  may  be  our  sepulchre.     If  Fate, 
If  tempests  wreak  their  wrath  on  us,  serene 
We  watch  the  bolt  of  heaven,  and  scorn  the  hate 
Of  angry  gods  that  smite  us  in  their  spleen. 
Perchance  the  jealous  mists  are  but  the  screen 
That  veils  the  fairy  coast  we  would  explore. 
Come,  though  the  sea  be  vex'd,  and  breakers  roar, 
Come,  for  the  air  of  this  old  world  is  vile. 
Haste  we,  and  toil,  and  faint  not  at  the  oar ; 
"  It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle." 

Grey  serpents  trail  in  temples  desecrate 

Where  Cypris  smiled,  the  golden  maid,  the  queen, 

And  ruined  is  the  palace  of  our  state ; 

But  happy  Loves  flit  round  the  mast,  and  keen 

The  shrill  wind  sings  the  silken  cords  between. 

Heroes  are  we,  with  wearied  hearts  and  sore, 


Whose  flower  is  faded  and  whose  locks  are  hoar, 
Yet  haste,  light  skiffs,  where  myrtle  thickets  smile ; 
Love's  panthers  sleep  'mid  roses,  as  of  yore : 
*'  It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle  1 " 

ENVOY 

Sad  eyes !  the  blue  sea  laughs,  as  heretofore. 
Ah,  singing  birds  your  happy  music  pour ! 
Ah,  poets,  leave  the  sordid  earth  awhile ; 
Flit  to  these  ancient  gods  we  still  adore : 
**  It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle !  " 


S2 


BALLADE  OF  THE  MUSE 

Quem  tu^  Melpomene^  sent  el, 

THE  man  whom  once,  Melpomene, 
Thou  look'st  on  with  benignant  sight, 
Shall  never  at  the  Isthmus  be 
A  boxer  eminent  in  fight, 
Nor  fares  he  foremost  in  the  flight 
Of  Grecian  cars  to  victory. 
Nor  goes  with  Delian  laurels  dight, 
The  man  thou  lov'st,  Melpomene ! 

Not  him  the  Capitol  shall  see, 

As  who  hath  crush'd  the  threats  and  might 

Of  monarchs,  march  triumphantly ; 

But  Fame  shall  crown  him,  in  his  right 

Of  all  the  Roman  lyre  that  smite 

The  first ;  so  woods  of  Tivoli 

Proclaim  him,  so  her  waters  bright, 

The  man  thou  lov^st,  Melpomene ! 

The  sons  of  queenly  Rome  count  me^ 

Me  too,  with  them  whose  chants  delight,  — 

The  poets*  kindly  company ; 

Now  broken  is  the  tooth  of  spite, 

But  thou,  that  temperest  aright 

The  golden  lyre,  all,  all  to  thee 

He  owes  — life,  fame,  and  fortune's  height  - 

The  man  thou  lov'st,  Melpomene  ! 


23 


ENVOY 


Queen,  that  to  mute  lips  could'st  unite 
The  wild  swan's  dying  melody ! 
Thy  gifts,  ah !  how  shall  he  requite  — 
The  man  thou  lov'st,  Melpomene  ? 


24 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  CITIES 

TO*E.  W.  GOSSE 

THE  dust  of  Carthage  and  the  dust 
Of  Babel  on  the  desert  wold, 
The  loves  of  Corinth,  and  the  lust, 
Orchomenos  increased  with  gold ; 
The  town  of  Jason,  over-bold, 
And  Cherson,  smitten  in  her  prime  — 
What  are  they  but  a  dream  half -told  ? 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time  ? 

In  towns  that  were  a  kingdom's  trust. 
In  dim  Atlantic  forests'  fold. 
The  marble  wasteth  to  a  crust, 
The  granite  crumbles  into  mould  ; 
O'er  these  —  left  nameless  from  of  old  — 
As  over  Shinar's  brick  and  slime. 
One  vast  forgetfulness  is  roU'd  — 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time  ? 

The  lapse  of  ages,  and  the  rust, 

The  fire,  the  frost,  the  waters  cold, 

Efface  the  evil  and  the  just; 

From  Thebes,  that  Eriphyle  sold, 

To  drown'd  Caer-Is,  whose  sweet  bells  toll'd 

Beneath  the  wave  a  dreamy  chime 

That  echo'd  from  the  mountain -hold, — 

"  Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time  ? " 


»5 


Prince,  all  thy  towns  and  cities  must 
Decay  as  these,  till  all  their  crime, 
And  mirth,  and  wealth,  and  toil  are  thrust 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time. 


BALLADE  OF  AUTUMN 

WE  built  a  castle  in  the  air, 
In  summer  weather,  you  and  I, 
The  wind  and  sun  were  in  your  hair,  — 
Gold  hair  against  a  sapphire  sky : 
When  Autumn  came,  with  leaves  that  fly 
Before  the  storm,  across  the  plain, 
You  fled  from  me,  with  scarce  a  sigh  — 
My  Love  returns  no  more  again ! 

The  windy  lights  of  Autumn  flare : 
I  watch  the  moonlit  sails  go  by  ; 
I  marvel  how  men  toil  and  fare. 
The  weary  business  that  they  ply ! 
Their  voyaging  is  vanity. 
And  fairy  gold  is  all  their  gain, 
And  all  the  winds  of  winter  cry, 
"  My  Love  returns  no  more  again  1 " 

Here,  in  my  castle  of  Despair, 
I  sit  alone  with  memory ; 
The  wind-fed  wolf  has  left  his  lair, 
To'keep  the  outcast  company. 
The  brooding  owl  he  hoots  hard  by, 
The  hare  shall  kindle  on  thy  hearth  -stane^ 
The  Rhymer's  sooth  est  prophecy,  —  ^ 
My  Love  returns  no  more  again  ! 

I    Thomas  of  Ercildoune. 


27 


ENVOY 


Lady,  my  home  until  I  die 

Is  here,  where  youth  and  hope  were  slain ; 

They  flit,  the  ghosts  of  our  July, 

My  Love  returns  no  more  again ! 


BALLADE  OF  TRUE  WISDOM 

WHILE  others  are  asking  for  beauty  or  fame, 
Or  praying  to  know  that  for  which  they  should 
pray, 
Or  courting  Queen  Venus,  that  affable  dame, 
Or  chasing  the  Muses  the  weary  and  grey. 
The  sage  has  found  out  a  more  excellent  way  — 
To  Pan  and  to  Pallas  his  incense  he  showers. 
And  his  humble  petition  puts  up  day  by  day, 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

Inventors  may  bow  to  the  God  that  is  lame. 
And  crave  from  the  fire  on  his  stithy  a  ray ; 
Philosophers  kneel  to  the  God  without  name. 
Like  the  people  of  Athens,  agnostics  are  they ; 
The  hunter  a  fawn  to  Diana  will  slay, 
The  maiden  wild  roses  will  wreathe  for  the  Hours ; 
But  the  wise  man  will  ask,  ere  libation  he  pay, 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

Oh !  grant  me  a  life  without  pleasure  or  blame 
( As  mortals  count  pleasure  who  rush  through  their  day 
With  a  speed  to  which  that  of  the  tempest  is  tame ) ! 
O  grant  me  a  house  by  the  beach  of  a  bay. 
Where  the  waves  can  be  surly  in  winter,  and  play 
With  the  sea-weed  in  summer,  ye  bountiful  powers ! 
And  I'd  leave  all  the  hurry,  the  noise,  and  the  fray. 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 


39 


Gods,  grant  or  withhold  it ;  your  "  yea  "  and  your  "  nay ' 
Are  immutable,  heedless  of  outcry  of  ours : 
But  life  is  worth  living,  and  here  we  would  stay 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 


BALLADE  OF  LIFE 

**  *  Dead  and  gone,'  — a  sorry  burden 
of  the  Ballad  of  Life." 

Death's  Jest  Book. 

SAY,  fair  maids,  maying 
In  gardens  green. 
In  deep  dells  straying, 
"What  end  hath  been 
Two  Mays  between 
Of  the  flowers  that  shone 
And  your  own  sweet  queen  — 
"  They  are  dead  and  gone  !  '* 

Say,  grave  priests,  praying 

In  dule  and  teen. 

From  cells  decaying 

What  have  ye  seen 

Of  the  proud  and  mean. 

Of  Judas  and  John, 

Of  the  foul  and  clean  ?  — 

"  They  are  dead  and  gone  1 " 

Say,  kings,  arraying 

Loud  wars  to  win, 

Of  your  manslaying 

What  gain  ye  glean  ? 

"  They  are  fierce  and  keen. 

But  they  fall  anon. 

On  the  sword  that  lean,  — 

They  are  dead  and  gone !  " 


31 


ENVOY 


Through  the  mad  world's  scene, 

We  are  drifting  on, 

To  this  tune,  I  ween, 

"  They  are  dead  and  gone  I  " 


32 


BALLADE  OF  DEAD  LADIES 

(AFTER  VILLON) 

NAY,  tell  me  now  in  what  strange  air 
The  Roman  Flora  dwells  to-day. 
Where  Archippiada  hides,  and  where 
Beautiful  Thais  has  passed  away  ? 
Whence  answers  Echo,  afield,  astray. 
By  mere  or  stream,  —  around,  below  ? 
Lovelier  she  than  a  woman  of  clay ; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? 

Where  is  wise  Heloise,  that  care 
Brought  on  Abeilard,  and  dismay  ? 
All  for  her  love  he  found  a  snare, 
A  maimed  poor  monk  in  orders  grey ; 
And  Where's  the  Queen  who  willed  to  slay 
Buridan,  that  in  a  sack  must  go 
Afloat  down  Seine,  —  a  perilous  way  — 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? 

Where's  that  White  Queen,  a  lily  rare. 
With  her  sweet  song,  the  Siren's  lay  ? 
Where's  Bertha  Broad -foot,  Beatrice  fair? 
Alys  and  Ermengarde,  where  are  they  ? 
Good  Joan,  whom  English  did  betray 
In  Rouen  town,  and  burned  her  ?     No, 
Maiden  and  Queen,  no  man  may  say; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? 


33 


ENVOY 


Prince,  all  this  week  thou  need'st  not  pray, 
Nor  yet  this  year  the  thing  to  know. 
One  burden  answers,  ever  and  aye, 
"  Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ?  " 


34 


VILLON'S  BALLADE 

OF   GOOD   COUNSEL,   TO    HIS   FRIENDS   OF 
EVIL   LIFE 

NAY,  be  you  pardoner  or  cheat, 
Or  cogger  keen,  or  mumper  shy, 
You*ll  burn  your  fingers  at  the  feat, 
And  howl  like  other  folks  that  fry. 
All  evil  folks  that  love  a  lie  I 
And  where  goes  gain  that  greed  amasses, 
By  wile,  and  trick,  and  thievery  ? 
*Tis  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses  I 

Rhyme,  rail,  dance,  play  the  cymbals  sweet. 
With  game,  and  shame,  and  jollity, 
Go  jigging  through  the  field  and  street, 
With  mysfry  and  morality  ; 
Win  gold  at  gleek^  —  and  that  will  fly. 
Where  all  you  gain  at  passage  passes,  — 
And  that's  ?     You  know  as  well  as  I, 
'Tis  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses  1 

Nay,  forth  from  all  such  filth  retreat, 

Go  delve  and  ditch,  in  wet  or  dry. 

Turn  groom,  give  horse  and  mule  their  meat. 

If  you've  no  clerkly  skill  to  ply ; 

You'll  gain  enough,  with  husbandry. 

But  —  sow  hempseed  and  such  wild  grasses, 

And  where  goes  all  you  take  thereby  ?  — 

'Tis  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses ! 


35 


ENVOY 

Your  clothes,  your  hose,  your  broidery, 
Your  linen  that  the  snow  surpasses, 
Or  ere  they're  worn,  off,  off  they  fly, 
'Tis  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses  I 


36 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOKWORM 

FAR  in  the  Past  I  peer,  and  see 
A  Child  upon  the  Nursery  floor, 
A  Child  with  books  upon  his  knee, 
Who  asks,  like  Oliver,  for  more  I 
The  number  of  his  years  is  IV, 
And  yet  in  Letters  hath  he  skill. 
How  deep  he  dives  in  Fairy-lore ! 
The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 

One  gift  the  Fairies  gave  me :  ( Three 
They  commonly  bestowed  of  yore ) 
The  Love  of  Books,  the  Golden  Key 
That  opens  the  Enchanted  Door ; 
Behind  it  BLUEBEARD  lurks,  and  o»er 
And  o'er  doth  JACK  his  Giants  kill, 
And  there  is  all  ALADDIN'S  store,— 
The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 

Take  all,  but  leave  my  Books  to  me ! 

These  heavy  creels  of  old  we  bore 

We  fill  not  now,  nor  wander  free. 

Nor  wear  the  heart  that  once  we  wore ; 

Not  now  each  River  seems  to  pour 

His  waters  from  the  Muses'  hill ; 

Though  something's  gone  from  stream  and  shore, 

The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 


37 


ENVOY 

Fate,  that  art  Queen  by  shore  and  sea, 
We  bow  submissive  to  thy  will, 
Ah  grant,  by  some  benign  decree, 
The  Books  I  loved  —  to  love  them  still. 


38 


BALLADE  OF  OLD  PLAYS 

(Les  CBuvres  de  Monsieur  Molihre.    A  Paris, 
che^  Louys  Billaine,  a  la  Palme. 

M.  D.  C.  LXVI.) 


WHEN  these  Old  Plays  were  new,  the  King, 
Beside  the  Cardinal's  chair, 
Applauded,  'mid  the  courtly  ring, 
The  verses  of^Moli^re ; 
Point -lace  was  then  the  only  wear, 
Old  Corneille  came  to  woo, 
And  bright  Du  Pare  was  young  and  fair, 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new ! 

LA   COMlftDIE 

How  shrill  the  butcher's  cat -calls  ring. 

How  loud  the  lackeys  swear  1 

Black  pipe-bowls  on  the  stage  they  fling, 

At  Br^court,  fuming  there  I 

The  Porter's  stabbed  I  a  Mousquetaire 

Breaks  in  with  noisy  crew  — 

'Twas  all  a  commonplace  affair 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new ! 


When  these  Old  Plays  were  new  1    They  bring 
A  host  of  phantoms  rare : 
Old  jests  that  float,  old  jibes  that  sting. 
Old  faces  peaked  with  care : 


39 


Menage's  s^nirk,  de  Vise's  stare, 
The  thefts  of  Jean  Ribou,  —  i 
Ah,  publishers  were  hard  to  bear 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new. 

ENVOY 

Ghosts,  at  your  Poet's  word  ye  dare 
To  break  Death's  dungeons  through, 
And  frisk,  as  in  that  golden  air, 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new  I 

I  A  knavish  publisher. 


40 


BALLADE  OF  HIS  BOOKS 

HERE  Stand  my  books,  line  upon  line 
They  reach  the  roof,  and  row  by  row, 
They  speak  of  faded  tastes  of  mine, 
And  things  I  did,  but  do  not,  know : 
Old  school  books,  useless  long  ago, 
Old  Logics,  where  the  spirit,  railed  in. 
Could  scarcely  answer  "  yes  "  or  "  no  "  — 
The  many  things  I've  tried  and  failed  in  I 

Here's  Villon,  in  morocco  fine, 

( The  Poet  starved,  in  mud  and  snow, ) 

Glatigny  does  not  crave  to  dine, 

And  Rene's  tears  forget  to  flow. 

And  here's  a  work  by  Mrs.  Crowe, 

With  hosts  of  ghosts  and  bogies  jailed  in ; 

Ah,  all  my  ghosts  have  gone  below  — 

The  many  things  I've  tried  and  failed  in  I 

He's  touched,  this  mouldy  Greek  divine. 
The  Princess  D'Este's  hand  of  snow; 
And  here  the  arms  of  D'Hoym  shine. 
And  there's  a  tear-bestained  Rousseau : 
Here's  Carlyle  shrieking  "  woe  on  woe  " 
(  The  first  edition,  this,  he  wailed  in  ) ; 
I  once  believed  in  him  —  but  oh. 
The  many  things  I've  tried  and  failed  in ! 


41 


ENVOY 


Prince,  tastes  may  differ;  mine  and  thine 

Quite  other  balances  are  scaled  in  ; 

May  you  succeed,  though  I  repine  — 

"  The  many  things  IVe  tried  and  failed  in !  ** 


42 


BALLADE  OF  THE  DREAM 

SWIFT  as  sound  of  music  fled 
When  no  more  the  organ  sighs, 
Sped  as  all  old  days  are  sped, 
So  your  lips,  love,  and  your  eyes, 
So  your  gentle-voiced  replies 
Mine  one  hour  in  sleep  that  seem. 
Rise  and  flit  when  slumber  flies. 
Following  darkness  likeji  dream  ! 

Like  the  scent  from  roses  red. 
Like  the  dawn  from  golden  skies, 
Like  the  semblance  of  the  dead 
From  the  living  love  that  hies. 
Like  the  shifting  shade  that  lies 
On  the  moonlight -silvered  stream. 
So  you  rise  when  dreams  arise. 
Following  darkness  like  a  dream  ! 

Could  some  spell,  or  sung  or  said. 
Could  some  kindly  witch  and  wise, 
Lull  for  aye  this  dreaming  head 
In  a  mist  of  memories, 
I  would  lie  like  him  who  lies 
Where  the  lights  on  Latmos  gleam,  — 
Wake  not,  find  not  Paradise 
Following  darkness  like  a  dream  ! 


43 


ENVOY 


Sleep,  that  giv*st  what  Life  denies, 
Shadowy  bounties  and  supreme, 
Bring  the  dearest  face  that  flies 
Following  darkness  like  a  dream  ! 


44 


BALLADE  OF  BLIND  LOVE 
(after  lyonnet  de  coismes) 

WHO  have  loved  and  ceased  to  love,  forget 
That  ever  they  loved  in  their  lives,  they  say  ; 
Only  remember  the  fever  and  fret, 
And  the  pain  of  Love,  that  was  all  his  pay ; 
All  the  delight  of  him  passes  away 
From  hearts  that  hoped,  and  from  lips  that  met  — 
Too  late  did  I  love  you,  my  love,  and  yet 
I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day. 

Too  late  were  we  Vare  of  the  secret  net 
That  meshes  the  feet  in  the  flowers  that  stray; 
There  were  we  taken  and  snared,  Lisette, 

In  the  dungeon  of  Xa  ff au66e  Hmistic ; 

Help  was  there  none  in  the  wide  world's  fray, 
Joy  was  there  none  in  the  gift  and  the  debt ; 
Too  late  we  knew  it,  too  long  regret  — 
I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day  ! 

We  must  live  our  lives,  though  the  sun  be  set, 

Must  meet  in  the  masque  where  parts  we  play. 

Must  cross  in  the  maze  of  Life's  minuet ; 

Our  yea  is  yea,  and  our  nay  is  nay  : 

But  while  snows  of  winter  or  flowers  of  May 

Are  the  sad  year's  shroud  or  coronet. 

In  the  season  of  rose  or  of  violet, 

I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day  ! 


45 


ENVOY 


Queen,  when  the  clay  is  my  coverlet, 
When  I  am  dead,  and  when  you  are  grey. 
Vow,  where  the  grass  of  the  grave  is  wet, 
"  I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day  1 " 


46 


BALLADE  OF  MIDDLE  AGE 

OUR  youth  began  with  tears  and  sighs, 
With  seeking  what  we  could  not  find 
Our  verses  all  were  threnodies, 
In  elegiacs  still  we  whined ; 
Our  ears  were  deaf,  our  eyes  were  blind, 
We  sought  and  knew  not  what  we  sought. 
We  marvel,  now  we  look  behind : 
Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought ! 

Oh,  foolish  youth,  untimely  wise  ! 
Oh,  phantoms  of  the  sickly  mind ! 
What  ?  not  content  with  seas  and  skies, 
With  rainy  clouds  and  southern  wind, 
With  common  cares  and  faces  kind. 
With  pains  and  joys  each  morning  brought  ? 
Ah,  old,  and  worn,  and  tired  we  find 
Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought  1 

Though  youth  "  turns  spectre-thin  and  dies," 

To  mourn  for  youth  we're  not  inclined ; 

We  set  our  souls  on  salmon  flies, 

We  whistle  where  we  once  repined. 

Confound  the  woes  of  human-kind  ! 

By  heaven  we're  "  well  deceived,"  I  wot ; 

Who  hum,  contented  or  resigned, 

"  Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought ! " 


47 


O  nate  mecunty  worn  and  lined 
Our  faces  show,  but  that  is  naught ; 
Our  hearts  are  young  'neath  wrinkled  rind : 
Life's  more  amusing  than  we  thought ! 


48 


BALLADE  OF  WORLDLY  WEALTH 

(OLD  FRENCH) 

MONEY  taketh  town  and  wall, 
Fort  and  ramp  without  a  blow ; 
Money  moves  the  merchants  all, 
While  the  tides  shall  ebb  and  flow ; 
Money  maketh  Evil  show 
Like  the  Good,  and  Truth  like  lies : 
These  alone  can  ne'er  bestow 
Youth,  and  health,  and  Paradise. 

Money  maketh  festival. 
Wine  she  buys,  and  beds  can  strow ; 
Round  the  necks  of  captains  tall. 
Money  wins  them  chains  to  throw, 
Marches  soldiers  to  and  fro, 
Gaineth  ladies  with  sweet  eyes : 
These  alone  can  ne'er  bestow 
Youth,  and  health,  and  Paradise. 

Money  wins  the  priest  his  stall ; 
Money  mitres  buys,  I  trow. 
Red  hats  for  the  Cardinal, 
Abbeys  for  the  novice  low ; 
Money  maketh  sin  as  snow, 
Place  of  penitence  supplies : 
These  alone  can  ne'er  bestow 
Youth,  and  health,  and  Paradise. 


49 


BALLADE  OF  HIS  CHOICE  OF  A 
SEPULCHRE 

HERE  I'd  come  when  weariest ! 
Here  the  breast 
Of  the  Windburg's  tufted  over 
Deep  with  bracken  ;  here  his  crest 

Takes  the  west, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover. 

Silent  here  are  lark  and  plover; 

In  the  cover 
Deep  below  the  cushat  best 
Loves  his  mate,  and  croons  above  her 

O'er  their  nest, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover. 

Bring  me  here,  Life's  tired -out  guest, 

To  the  blest 
Bed  that  waits  the  weary  rover,  " 

Here  should  failure  be  confessed; 

Ends  my  quest. 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover! 


Friend,  or  stranger  kind,  or  lover, 
Ah,  fulfil  a  last  behest, 

Let  me  rest 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover! 


SO 


TOUT  FINIT  PAR  DES  CHANSONS 

(BALLADE   EN   GUISE   DE   RONDEAU  ) 

ALL  ends  in  song !     Dame  Nature  toiled 
In  stellar  space,  by  land,  by  sea, 
And  many  a  monstrous  thing  she  spoiled, 

And  many  another  brought  to  be ; 
Strange  brutes  that  sprawled,  strange  stars  that  flee, 

Or  flare  the  steadfast  signs  among : 
What  profit  thence  —  to  you  or  me  ? 
All  ends  in  song  I 

All  ends  in  song  1     But  Nature  moiled 

And  brought  forth  Man,  who  deems  him  free, 

Who  dreams  'twas  his  own  hand  embroiled 
The  tangles  of  his  destiny : 

Who  fashioned  empires,  —  who  but  he?  — 
Who  fashioned  gods,  a  motley  throng : 

They  fall,  they  fade  by  Time's  decree,  — 
All  ends  in  song  1 

All  ends  in  song !      We  strive,  are  foiled, 

Are  broken-hearted,  —  even  we : 
Where  that  old  sinful  snake  is  coiled 

We  shake  the  knowledgeable  tree, 
We  listen  to  the  serpent's  plea, 

"As  Gods  shall  ye  know  Right  and  Wrong,"  — 
And  this  is  all  the  mystery,  — 

,  "All  ends  in  song  I  '* 


ENVOY 


Muse,  or  in  sooth  or  mockery, 

Or  brief  of  days,  or  lasting  long. 
Our  love,  or  hate,  or  gloom,  or  glee 
All  ends  in  song  1 


DIZAIN 

As,  to  the  pipBf  with  rhythmic  feet 
In  windings  of  some  old-world  dance^ 
The  smiling  couples  cross  and  meet. 
Join  hands,  and  then  in  line  advance, 
So,  to  these  fair  old  tunes  of  France, 
Through  all  their  ma^e  of  to-and-fro. 
The  light-heeled  numbers  laughing  go, 
Retreat,  return,  and  ere  they  flee, 
One  moment  pause  in  panting  row, 
A.nd  seem  to  say  —  Vos  Plaudite  1 

AUSTIN    DOBSON. 


VERSES  VAIN 


^' Br  antes,  Virelais,  Ballades,  and  Verses  vain.'' 

THE   FAERIE   QUEENE. 


ALMAE  MATRES 

(ST.   ANDREWS,    1862.      OXFORD,    1865  ) 

ST.  Andrews  by  the  N^orthern  sea, 
A  haunted  town  it  is  to  me  ! 
A  little  city,  worn  and  grey, 

The  grey  North  Ocean  girds  it  round. 
And  o*er  the  rocks,  and  up  the  bay. 

The  long  sea -rollers  surge  and  sound. 
And  still  the  thin  and  biting  spray 

Drives  down  the  melancholy  street, 
And  still  endure,  and  still  decay. 

Towers  that  the  salt  winds  vainly  beat. 
Ghost-like  and  shadowy  they  stand 
Dim  mirrored  in  the  wet  sea-sand. 

St.  Leonard's  chapel,  long  ago 

We  loitered  idly  where  the  tall 
Fresh  budded  mountain  ashes  blow 

Within  thy  desecrated  wall  : 
The  tough  roots  rent  the  tomb  below. 

The  April  birds  sang  clamorous, 
We  did  not  dream,  we  could  not  know 

How  hardly  Fate  would  deal  with  us ! 

O,  broken  minster,  looking  forth 
Beyond  the  bay,  above  the  town, 

O,  winter  of  the  kindly  North, 
O,  college  of  the  scarlet  gown. 

And  shining  sands  beside  the  sea. 

And  stretch  of  links  beyond  the  sand. 


55 


Once  more  I  watch  you,  and  to  me 
It  is  as  if  I  touched  his  hand  I 

And  therefore  art  thou  yet  more  dear, 

O,  little  city,  grey  and  sere, 
Though  shrunken  from  thine  ancient  pride 

And  lonely  by  thy  lonely  sea. 
Than  these  fair  halls  on  Isis'  side. 

Where  Youth  an  hour  came  back  to  me  1 

A  land  of  waters  green  and  clear. 

Of  willows  and  of  poplars  tall, 
And,  in  the  spring  time  of  the  year. 

The  white  may  breaking  over  all, 
And  Pleasure  quick  to  come  at  call. 

And  summer  rides  by  marsh  and  wold. 
And  Autumn  with  her  crimson  pall 

About  the  towers  of  Magdalen  rolled ; 
And  strange  enchantments  from  the  past, 

And  memories  of  the  friends  of  old. 
And  strong  Tradition,  binding  fast 

The  "  flying  terms  "  with  bands  of  gold,  — 

All  these  hath  Oxford :  all  are  dear, 

But  dearer  far  the  little  town. 
The  drifting  surf,  the  wintry  year. 
The  college  of  the  scarlet  gown, 
St.  Andrews  by  the  Northern  sea^ 
That  is  a  haunted  town  to  me  ! 


S6 


A  DREAM 

WHY  will  you  haunt  my  sleep  ? 
You  know  it  may  not  be, 
The  grave  is  wide  and  deep, 
That  sunders  you  and  me ; 
In  bitter  dreams  we  reap 

The  sorrow  we  have  sown, 
And  I  would  I  were  asleep. 
Forgotten  and  alone ! 

We  knew  and  did  not  know. 

We  saw  and  did  not  see. 
The  nets  that  long  ago 

Fate  wove  for  you  and  me; 
The  cruel  nets  that  keep 

The  birds  that  sob  and  moan. 
And  I  would  we  were  asleep. 

Forgotten  and  alone  I 


DESIDERIUM 

IN    MEMORIAM    S.    F.   A. 

THE  call  of  homing  rooks,  the  shrill 
Song  of  some  bird  that  watches  late, 
The  cries  of  children  break  the  still 
Sad  twilight  by  the  churchyard  gate. 

And  o'er  your  far-oiBf  tomb  the  grey 

Sad  twilight  broods,  and  from  the  trees 

The  rooks  call  on  their  homeward  way. 
And  are  you  heedless  quite  of  these  ? 

The  clustered  rowan  berries  red 
And  Autumn's  may,  the  clematis. 

They  droop  above  your  dreaming  head. 
And  these,  and  all  things  must  you  miss  ? 

Ah,  you  that  loved  the  twilight  air, 
The  dim  lit  hour  of  quiet  best, 

At  last,  at  last  you  have  your  share 
Of  what  life  gave  so  seldom,  rest ! 

Yes,  rest  beyond  all  dreaming  deep, 

Or  labour,  nearer  the  Divine, 
And  pure  from  fret,  and  smooth  as  sleep. 

And  gentle  as  thy  soul,  is  thine ! 

So  let  it  be !     But  could  I  know 
That  thou  in  this  soft  autumn  eve. 

This  hush  of  earth  that  pleased  thee  so, 
Hadst  pleasure  still,  I  might  not  grieve. 


58 


RONSARD'S  GRAVE 


Y 


E  wells,  ye  founts  that  fall 

From  the  steep  mountain  wall, 
That  fall,  and  flash,  and  fleet 
With  silver  feet. 


Ye  woods,  ye  streams  that  lave 
The  meadows  with  your  wave. 
Ye  hills,  and  valley  fair. 
Attend  my  prayer ! 

When  Heaven  and  Fate  decree 
My  latest  hour  for  me. 

When  I  must  pass  away 
From  pleasant  day, 

I  ask  that  none  may  break 
The  marble  for  my  sake, 

Wishful  to  make  more  fair 
My  sepulchre. 

Only  a  laurel  tree 
Shall  shade  the  grave  of  me, 
Only  Apollo's  bough 

Shall  guard  me  now ! 

Now  shall  I  be  at  rest 
Among  the  spirits  blest, 

The  happy  dead  that  dwell  — 
Where,  —  who  may  tell  ? 


59 


The  snow  and  wind  and  hail 
May  never  there  prevail, 
Nor  ever  thunder  fall 
Nor  storm  at  all. 

But  always  fadeless  there 
The  woods  are  green  and  fair, 
And  faithful  ever  more 
Spring  to  that  shore ! 

There  shall  I  ever  hear 
Alcaeus*  music  clear. 

And  sweetest  of  all  things 
There  Sappho  sings. 


60 


ROMANCE 

MY  Love  dwelt  in  a  Northern  land. 
A  grey  tower  in  a  forest  green 
Was  hers,  and  far  on  either  hand 

The  long  wash  of  the  waves  was  seen, 
And  leagues  on  leagues  of  yellow  sand, 
The  woven  forest  boughs  between  1 

And  through  the  silver  Northern  night 
The  sunset  slowly  died  away, 

And  herds  of  strange  deer,  lily-white, 
Stole  forth  among  the  branches  grey ; 

About  the  coming  of  the  light, 

They  fled  like  ghosts  before  the  day  1 

I  know  not  if  the  forest  green 

Still  girdles  round  that  castle  grey; 

I  know  not  if  the  boughs  between 
The  white  deer  vanish  ere  the  day ; 

Above  my  Love  the  grass  is  green, 
My  heart  is  colder  than  the  clay ! 


6i 


VILLANELLE 

(TO    M.  JOSEPH   BOULMIER,  AUTHOR  OF 
"LES    VILLANELLES  "  ) 

VILLANELLE,  why  art  thou  mute  ? 
Hath  the  singer  ceased  to  sing  ? 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute  ? 

Many  a  pipe  and  scrannel  flute 

On  the  breeze  their  discords  fling; 
Villanelle,  why  art  thou  mute  ? 

Sound  of  tumult  and  dispute, 

Noise  of  war  the  echoes  bring ; 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute  ? 

Once  he  sang  of  bud  and  shoot 

In  the  season  of  the  Spring ; 
Villanelle,  why  art  thou  mute  ? 

Fading  leaf  and  falling  fruit 

Say,  "  The  year  is  on  the  wing, 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute  ? " 

Ere  the  axe  lie  at  the  root, 

Ere  the  winter  come  as  king, 
Villanelle,  why  art  thou  mute  ? 
Hath  the  Master  lost  his  lute  ? 


62 


TRIOLETS  AFTER  MOSCHUS 

Aiai  ral  juaXdxai  fih  iT^v  /card  Koiirov  SKwvTai 
vcrrepov  dv  ^(bovrt,  Kal  els  Itos  dXXo  <f)T6ovTL 
dfifies  5'  *  01  ixeyd'KoL  koX  KaprepoL  ol  co^ol  dvdpes 
oirxdre  irpdra  ddvcofies  dvdKOOi  ev  x^oi/i  Koi\(;f. 
'e^dofjLCS  ev  fidXa  /xaKpbv  dr^pfiova  vfiyperov  'iLfirvov. 

ALAS,  for  us  no  second  spring, 
Like  mallows  in  the  garden-bed, 
For  these  the  grave  has  lost  his  sting, 
Alas,  for  us  no  second  spring, 
Who  sleep  without  awakening, 
And,  dead,  for  ever  more  are  dead, 
Alas,  for  us  no  second  spring. 
Like  mallows  in  the  garden-bed ! 

Alas,  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave 

That  boast  themselves  the  sons  of  men ! 

Once  they  go  down  into  the  grave  — 

Alas,  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave,  — 
They  perish  and  have  none  to  save. 
They  are  sown,  and  are  not  raised  again ; 

Alas,  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave. 

That  boast  themselves  the  sons  of  men  ! 


63 


IN  TINTAGEL 


LUI 


A 


H  lady,  lady,  leave  the  creeping  mist. 
And  leave  the  iron  castle  by  the  sea ! 


Nay,  from  the  sea  there  came  a  ghost  that  kissed 
My  lips,  and  so  I  cannot  come  to  thee  1 


Ah  lady,  leave  the  cruel  landward  wind 

That  crusts  the  blighted  flowers  with  bitter  foam ! 


Nay,  for  his  arms  are  cold  and  strong  to  bind, 
And  I  must  dwell  with  him  and  make  my  home  I 

LUI 

Come,  for  the  Spring  is  fair  in  Joyous  Guard 
And  down  deep  alleys  sweet  birds  sing  again. 


But  I  must  tarry  with  the  winter  hard. 
And  with  the  bitter  memory  of  pain, 

Although  the  Spring  be  fair  in  Joyous  Guard, 
And  in  the  gardens  glad  birds  sing  again  1 


PISIDIC£ 

The  incident  is  from  the  Love  Stories  of  Parthenius, 
who  preserved  fragments  of  a  lost  epic  on  the  expedition 
of  Achilles  against  Lesbos,  an  island  allied  with  Troy. 

THE  daughter  of  the  Lesbian  king 
Within  her  bower  she  watched  the  war, 
Far  off  she  heard  the  arrows  ring, 
The  smitten  harness  ring  afar ; 
And,  fighting  from  the  foremost  car. 

Saw  one  that  smote  where  all  must  flee ; 
More  fair  than  the  Immortals  are 
He  seemed  to  fair  Pisidice  ! 

She  saw,  she  loved  him,  and  her  heart 

Before  Achilles,  Peleus'  son, 
Threw  all  its  guarded  gates  apart, 

A  maiden  fortress  lightly  won  ! 
And,  ere  that  day  of  fight  was  done. 

No  more  of  land  or  faith  recked  she. 
But  joyed  in  her  new  life  begun,  — 

Her  life  of  love,  Pisldic8  I 

She  took  a  gift  into  her  hand, 

As  one  that  had  a  boon  to  crave ; 
She  stole  across  the  ruined  land 

Where  lay  the  dead  without  a  grave, 
And  to  Achilles'  hand  she  gave 

Her  gift,  the  secret  postern's  key. 
"  To-morrow  let  me  be  thy  slave !  " 

Moaned  to  her  love  Pisidic8. 


6s 


Ere  dawn  the  Argives*  clarion  call 

Rang  down  Methymna*s  burning  street ; 
They  slew  the  sleeping  warriors  all, 

They  drove  the  women  to  the  fleet, 
Save  one,  that  to  Achilles*  feet 

Clung,  but,  in  sudden  wrath,  cried  he : 
"  For  her  no  doom  but  death  is  meet," 

And  there  men  stoned  Pisidice. 

In  havens  of  that  haunted  coast, 

Amid  the  myrtles  of  the  shore. 
The  moon  sees  many  a  maiden  ghost 

Love's  outcast  now  and  evermore. 
The  silence  hears  the  shades  deplore 

Their  hour  of  dear-bought  love ;  but  thee 
The  waves  lull,  'neath  thine  olives  hoar. 

To  dreamless  rest,  Pisidice  1 


66 


A  PORTRAIT  OF  1783 

YOUR  hair  and  chin  are  like  the  hair 
And  chin  Bume-Jones's  ladies  wear ; 
You  were  unfashionably  fair 

In  'S3 ; 
And  sad  you  were  when  girls  are  gay, 
You  read  a  book  about  Le  vrai 
Merite  de  Phomme,  alone  in  May. 

What  can  it  be, 
Le  vrai  merite  de  Vhomme  ?     Not  gold, 
Not  titles  that  are  bought  and  sold, 
Not  wit  that  flashes  and  is  cold. 

But  Virtue  merely  1 
Instructed  by  Jean- Jacques  Rousseau 
(And  Jean -Jacques,  surely,  ought  to  know). 
You  bade  the  crowd  of  f oplings  go. 

You  glanced  severely, 
Dreaming  beneath  the  spreading  shade 
Of  "  that  vast  hat  the  Graces  made; "i 
So  Rouget  sang  —  while  yet  he  played 

With  courtly  rhyme. 
And  hymned  great  Doisi*s  red  perruque, 
And  Nice*s  eyes,  and  Zulme*s  look. 
And  dead  canaries,  ere  he  shook 

The  sultry  time 

I  Vous  y  verrez,  belle  Julie, 
Que  ce  chapeau  tout  maltrait^ 
Fut,  dans  un  instant  de  folic, 
Par  les  Graces  meme  invent^. 

*'  A  Julje."    Essaii  en  Prose  et  en  l^ers,  par  Joseph 
Rouget  de  Lisle ;  Paris.    An.  V.  de  la  R^publique. 


67 


With  strains  like  thunder.     Loud  and  low 
Methinks  I  hear  the  murmur  grow, 
The  tramp  of  men  that  come  and  go 

With  fire  and  sword. 
They  war  against  the  quick  and  dead, 
Their  flying  feet  are  dashed  with  red, 
As  theirs  the  vintaging  that  tread 

Before  the  Lord. 
O  head  unfashionably  fair, 
What  end  was  thine,  for  all  thy  care  ? 
We  only  see  thee  dreaming  there: 

We  cannot  see 
The  breaking  of  thy  vision,  when 
The  Rights  of  Man  were  lords  of  men. 
When  virtue  won  her  own  again 

In  '93. 


68 


FROM  THE  EAST  TO  THE  WEST 

RETURNING  from  what  other  seas 
Dost  thou  renew  thy  murmuring, 
Weak  Tide,  and  hast  thou  aught  of  these   l  * 

To  tell,  the  shores  where  float  and  cling 
My  love,  my  hope,  my  memories  ? 

Say  does  my  lady  wake  to  note 

The  gold  light  into  silver  die  ? 
Or  do  thy  waves  make  lullaby, 

While  dreams  of  hers,  like  angels,  float 
Through  star-sown  spaces  of  the  sky  ? 

Ah,  would  such  angels  came  to  me 

That  dreams  of  mine  might  speak  with  hers. 
Nor  wake  the  slumber  of  the  sea 
With  words  as  low  as  winds  that  be 

Awake  among  the  gossamers  ! 


*re 


ion  ilM^  I  titfU  «4i  )<»  haA 


69 


THE  MOON'S  MINION 

(from  the  prose  of  C.  BAUDELAIRE) 

THINE  eyes  are  like  the  sea,  my  dear, 
The  wand'ring  waters,  green  and  grey ; 
Thine  eyes  are  wonderful  and  clear. 

And  deep,  and  deadly,  even  as  they ; 
The  spirit  of  the  changeful  sea 

Informs  thine  eyes  at  night  and  noon, 
She  sways  the  tides,  and  the  heart  of  thee. 
The  mystic,  sad,  capricious  Moon ! 

The  Moon  came  down  the  shining  stair 

Of  clouds  that  fleck  the  summer  sky, 
She  kissed  thee,  saying,  "  Child,  be  fair, 

And  madden  men's  hearts,  even  as  I ; 
Thou  shalt  love  all  things  strange  and  sweet, 

That  know  me  and  are  known  of  me ; 
The  lover  thou  shalt  never  meet, 

The  land  where  thou  shalt  never  be  1  '* 

She  held  thee  in  her  chill  embrace. 

She  kissed  thee  with  cold  lips  divine, 
She  left  her  pallor  on  thy  face. 

That  mystic  ivory  face  of  thinej; 
And  now  I  sit  beside  thy  feet. 

And  all  my  heart  is  far  from  thee, 
Dreaming  of  her  I  shall  not  meet, 

And  of  the  land  I  shall  not  see  1 


70 


VILLANELLE 

TO   LUCIA 

APOLLO  left  the  golden  Muse 
And  shepherded  a  mortal's  sheep, 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse  1 

To  mock  the  giant  swain  that  woos 

The  sea -nymph  in  the  sunny  deep, 
Apollo  left  the  golden  Muse. 

He  drove  afield  his  lambs  and  ewes, 

Where  Milon  and  where  Battus  reap, 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse ! 

To  watch  thy  tunny-fishers  cruise 

Below  the  dim  Sicilian  steep 
Apollo  left  the  golden  Muse. 

Ye  twain  did  loiter  in  the  dews. 

Ye  slept  the  swain's  unfever*d  sleep, 
Theocritus  of  Syracuse  1 

That  Time  might  half  with  his  confuse 
Thy  songs,  —  like  his,  that  laugh  and  leap, 

Theocritus  of  Syracuse, 
Apollo  left  the  golden  Muse  1 


71 


I   WOULD  my  days  had  been  in  other  times, 
A  moment  in  the  long  unnumbered  years 
That  knew  the  sway  of  Horus  and  of  hawk, 
In  peaceful  lands  that  border  on  the  Nile. 

I  would  my  days  had  been  in  other  times, 
Lulled  by  the  sacrifice  and  mumbled  hymn 
Between  the  Five  great  Rivers,  or  in  shade 
And  shelter  o£  the  cool  Himalayan  hills. 

I  would  my  days  had  been  in  other  times, 

That  I  in  some  old  abbey  of  Touraine 

Had  watched  the  rounding  grapes,  and  lived  my  life, 

Ere  ever  Luther  came  or  Rabelais ! 

I  would  my  days  had  been  in  other  times. 
When  quiet  life  to  death  not  terrible 
Drifted,  as  ashes  of  the  Santhal  dead 
Drift  down  the  sacred  Rivers  to  the  Seal 


72 


THE  SPINET 

MY  hearfs  an  old  Spinet  with  strings 
To  laughter  chiefly  tuned^  hut  some 
That  Fate  has  practised  hard  on^  dumb. 
They  answer  not  whoever  sings. 
The  ghosts  of  half -for gotten  things 

Will  touch  the  keys  with  fingers  numbf 
The  little  mocking  spirits  come 
And  thrill  it  with  their  fairy  wings, 

A  jingling  harmony  it  makes 

My  heart,  my  lyre,  my  old  Spinet, 

And  now  a  memory  it  wakes, 

And  now  the  music  means  ''^  for  get  ^^ 

And  little  heed  the  player  takes 

Howe'er  the  thoughtful  critic  fret. 


rJ" 


,J 


SONNETS 


HOMER 

HOMER,  thy  song  men  liken  to  the  sea 
With  all  the  notes  of  music  in  its  tone, 
With  tides  that  wash  the  dim  dominion 
Of  Hades,  and  light  waves  that  laugh  in  glee 
Around  the  isles  enchanted;  nay,  to  me 

Thy  verse  seems  as  the  River  of  source  unknown 
That  glasses  Egypt's  temples  overthrown 
In  his  sky -nurtured  stream,  eternally. 

No  wiser  we  than  men  of  heretofore 

To  find  thy  sacred  fountains  guarded  fast ; 

Enough,  thy  flood  makes  green  our  human  shore, 
As  Nilus  Egypt,  rolling  down  his  vast 

His  fertile  flood,  that  murmurs  evermore 
Of  gods  dethroned,  and  empires  in  the  past. 


77 


HOMERIC  UNITY 

THE  sacred  keep  of  Ilion  is  rent 
By  shaft  and  pit ;  foiled  waters  wander  slow 
Through  plains  where  Simois  and  Scamander  went 
To  war  with  Gods  and  heroes  long  ago. 
Not  yet  to  tired  Cassandra,  lying  low 
In  rich  Mycenae,  do  the  Fates  relent : 

The  bones  of  Agamemnon  are  a  show, 
And  ruined  is  his  royal  monument. 

The  dust  and  awful  treasures  of  the  Dead, 

Hath  Learning  scattered  wide,  but  vainly  thee, 

Homer,  she  meteth  with  her  tool  of  lead. 
And  strives  to  rend  thy  songs ;  too  blind  to  see 

The  crown  that  bums  on  thine  immortal  head 
Of  indivisible  supremacy ! 


78 


THE  ODYSSEY 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 
Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 
In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  ^aean  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine, 
As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again,  — 
So  gladly,  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 
Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers. 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours, 
They  hear  like  ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 


79 


IN  ITHACA 

"And  now  I  am  greatly  repenting  that  ever  I  left  my  life 
with  thee,  and  the  immortality  thou  didst  promise  me."  —  Let- 
ter of  Odysseus  to  Calypso.     Luciani  f^era  Historia. 

7  nPis  thought  Odysseus  when  the  strife  was  o'er 
1       With  all  the  waves  and  wars,  a  weary  while, 
Grew  restless  in  his  disenchanted  isle, 

And  still  would  watch  the  sunset,  from  the  shore, 

Go  down  the  ways  of  gold,  and  evermore 
His  sad  heart  followed  after,  mile  on  mile, 
Back  to  the  Goddess  of  the  magic  wile, 

Calypso,  and  the  love  that  was  of  yore. 

Thou  too,  thy  haven  gained,  must  turn  thee  yet 
To  look  across  the  sad  and  stormy  space, 
Years  of  a  youth  as  bitter  as  the  sea. 

Ah,  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  eyelids  wet. 
Because,  within  a  fair  forsaken  place 
The  life  that  might  have  been  is  lost  to  thee. 


80 


BION 

THE  wail  of  Moschus  on  the  mountains  crying 
The  Muses  heard,  and  loved  it  long  ago ; 
They  heard  the  hollows  of  the  hills  replying, 
They  heard  the  weeping  water's  overflow ; 
They  winged  the  sacred  strain  —  the  song  undying. 

The  song  that  all  about  the  world  must  go,  — 
When  poets  for  a  poet  dead  are  sighing. 
The  minstrels  for  a  minstrel  friend  laid  low. 

And  dirge  to  dirge  that  answers,  and  the  weeping 

For  Adonais  by  the  summer  sea. 
The  plaints  for  Lycidas,  and  Thyrsis  ( sleeping 

Far  from  "the  forest  ground  called  Thessaly,") 
These  hold  thy  memory,  Bion,  in  their  keeping, 

And  are  but  echoes  of  the  moan  for  thee. 


8i 


HERODOTUS  IN  EGYPT 

HE  left  the  land  of  youth,  he  left  the  young, 
The  smiling  gods  of  Greece ;  he  passed  the  isle 
Where  Jason  loitered,  and  where  Sappho  sung, 
He  sought  the  secret-founted  wave  of  Nile, 
And  of  their  old  world,  dead  a  weary  while. 
Heard  the  priests  murmur  in  their  mystic  tongue. 

And  through  the  fanes  went  voyaging,  among 
Dark  tribes  that  worshipped  Cat  and  Crocodile. 

He  learned  the  tales  of  death  Divine  and  birth. 
Strange  loves  of  Hawk  and  Serpent,  Sky  and  Earth, 

The  marriage,  and  the  slaying  of  the  Sun, 
The  shrines  of  gods  and  beasts  he  wandered  through. 
And  mocked  not  at  their  godhead,  for  he  knew 

Behind  all  creeds  the  Spirit  that  is  One. 


82 


SPRING 

(AFTER   MELEAGER) 

NOW  the  bright  crocus  flames,  and  now 
The  slim  narcissus  takes  the  rain, 
And,  straying  o*er  the  mountain's  brow, 
The  daffodilies  bud  again. 
The  thousand  blossoms  wax  and  wane 
On  wold,  and  heath,  and  fragrant  bough, 
But  fairer  than  the  flowers  art  thou. 
Than  any  growth  of  hill  or  plain. 

Ye  gardens,  cast  your  leafy  crown, 
That  my  Love's  feet  may  tread  it  down, 

Like  lilies  on  the  lilies  set ; 
My  Love,  whose  lips  are  softer  far 
Than  drowsy  poppy  petals  are, 

And  sweeter  than  the  violet  1 


83 


IDEAL 

Suggested  by  a  female  head  in  wax,  of  unknown 
date,  but  supposed  to  be  either  of  the  best  Greek  age, 
or  a  work  of  Raphael  or  Leonardo.  It  is  now  in 
the  Lille  Museum. 

AH,  mystic  child  of  Beauty,  nameless  maid, 
Dateless  and  fatherless,  how  long  ago, 
A  Greek,  with  some  rare  sadness  overweighed, 
Shaped  thee,  perchance,  and  quite  forgot  his  woe  1 
Or  Raphael  thy  sweetness  did  bestow. 
While  magical  his  fingers  o*er  thee  strayed. 

Or  that  great  pupil  of  Verrocchio 
Redeemed  thy  still  perfection  from  the  shade 

That  hides  all  fair  things  lost,  and  things  unborn, 
Where  one  has  fled  from  me,  that  wore  thy  grace, 
And  that  grave  tenderness  of  thine  awhile ; 

Nay,  still  in  dreams  I  see  her,  but  her  face 
Is  pale,  is  wasted  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 
And  only  on  thy  lips  I  find  her  smile. 


84 


NATURAL  THEOLOGY 

iirei,  Kal  tovtov  dtofiuL  dOavdroicriv 
^vxecdar     Udvres  5^  deG)v  xO'T^ova  dvOpcairoL. 

OD.  III.  47. 

4  4  /^^NCE  Cagn  was  like  a  father,  kind  and  good, 

\o/    But  He  was  spoiled  by  fighting  many  things ; 
He  wars  upon  the  lions  in  the  wood, 

And  breaks  the  Thunder-bird's  tremendous  wings; 
But  still  we  cry  to  Him, —  We  are  thy  brood — 

O  Cagn^  be  merciful !  and  us  He  brings 
To  herds  of  elands,  and  great  store  of  food, 

And  in  the  desert  opens  water -springs." 

So  Qing,  King  Nqsha's  Bushman  hunter,  spoke, 
Beside  the  camp-fire,  by  the  fountain  fair. 

When  all  were  weary,  and  soft  clouds  of  smoke 
Were  fading,  fragrant,  in  the  twilit  air : 

And  suddenly  in  each  man's  heart  there  woke 
A  pang,  a  sacred  memory  of  prayer. 


8s 


SHE 

TO   H.   R.    H. 

NOT  in  the  waste  beyond  the  swamps  and  sand, 
The  fever -haunted  forest  and  lagoon, 
Mysterious  K6r  thy  walls  forsaken  stand, 
Thy  lonely  towers  beneath  the  lonely  moon, 
Not  there  doth  Ayesha  linger,  rune  by  rune 
Spelling  strange  scriptures  of  a  people  banned. 

The  world  is  disenchanted ;  over  soon 
Shall  Europe  send  her  spies  through  all  the  land. 

Nay,  not  in  Kor,  but  in  whatever  spot, 
In  town  or  field,  or  by  the  insatiate  sea. 

Men  brood  on  buried  loves,  and  unforgot. 
Or  break  themselves  on  some  divine  decree, 

Or  would  o'erleap  the  limits  of  their  lot. 

There,  in  the  tombs  and  deathless,  dwelleth  SHE  I 


86 


BEFORE  THE  SNOW 

(AFTER  ALBERT  GLATIGNY) 

THE  winter  is  upon  us,  not  the  snow, 
The  hills  are  etched  on  the  horizon  bare. 
The  skies  are  iron  grey,  a  bitter  air, 
The  meagre  cloudlets  shudder  to  and  fro. 
One  yellow  leaf  the  listless  wind  doth  blow, 
Like  some  strange  butterfly,  unclassed  and  rare. 
Your  footsteps  ring  in  frozen  alleys,  where 
The  black  trees  seem  to  shiver  as  you  go. 

Beyond  lie  church  and  steeple,  with  their  old 
And  rusty  vanes  that  rattle  as  they  veer, 

A  sharper  gust  would  shake  them  from  their  hold, 
Yet  up  that  path,  in  summer  of  the  year. 

And  past  that  melancholy  pile  we  strolled 
To  pluck  wild  strawberries,  with  merry  cheer. 


87 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOLlfeRE 

(after  J.   TRUFFIER) 

DEAD  —  he  is  dead!     The  rouge  has  left  a,. trace 
On  that  thin  cheek  where  shone,  perchance,  a  tear, 
Even  while  the  people  laughed  that  held  him  dear 
But  yesterday.     He  died,  —  and  not  in  grace. 
And  many  a  black-robed  caitiff  starts  apace 

To  slander  him  whose  Tartuffe  made  them  fear, 
And  gold  must  win  a  passage  for  his  bier, 
And  bribe  the  crowd  that  guards  his  resting-place. 

Ah,  Moliere,  for  that  last  time  of  all, 

Man's  hatred  broke  upon  thee,  and  went  by, 

And  did  but  make  more  fair  thy  funeral. 
Though  in  the  dark  they  hid  thee  stealthily, 

Thy  coffin  had  the  cope  of  night  for  pall. 
For  torch,  the  stars  along  the  windy  sky  1 


SAN  TERENZO 

( The  village  in  the  bay  of  Spezia,  near  which  Shelley  was  living 
before  the  wreck  of  the  Don  Juan. ) 

MID  April  seemed  like  some  November  day, 
When  through  the  glassy  waters,  dull  as  lead, 
Our  boat,  like  shadowy  barques  that  bear  the  dead, 
Slipped  down  the  long  shores  of  the  Spezian  bay. 
Rounded  a  point,  —  and  San  Terenzo  lay 
Before  us,  that  gay  village,  yellow  and  red, 
The  roof  that  covered  Shelley's  homeless  head,  — 
His  house,  a  place  deserted,  bleak  and  grey. 

The  waves  broke  on  the  door-step;  fishermen 
Cast  their  long  nets,  and  drew,  and  cast  again. 
Deep  in  the  ilex  woods  we  wandered  free. 

When  suddenly  the  forest  glades  were  stirred 
With  waving  pinions,  and  a  great  sea  bird 

Flew  forth,  like  Shelley's  spirit,  to'the  sea  1 


89 


LOVE'S  EASTER 

LOVE  died  here 
Long  ago ; 
O'er  his  bier, 
Lying  low, 
Poppies  throw; 
Shed  no  tear ; 
Year  by  year, 
Roses  blow  I 

Year  by  year, 
Adon  —  dear 

To  Love's  Queen  — 

Does  not  die  1 
Wakes  when  green 
May  is  nigh ! 


90 


TWILIGHT 

(  AFTER   RICHEPIN  ) 

LIGHT  has  flown  I 
Through  the  grey 
The  wind's  way 
The  sea's  moan 
Sound  alone ! 
For  the  day 
These  repay 
And  atone ! 

Scarce  I  know, 
Listening  so 
To  the  streams 

Of  the  ]sea, 

If  old  dreams 

Sing  to  me ! 


91 


AN  OLD  GARDEN 

THE  autumn  sun  is  warm,  the  soft  winds  moan, 
The  golden  fruits  make  sweet  September  air 
In  gardens  where  the  apple  blossoms  were 
Through  these  old  Aprils  that  we  twain  have  known. 
I  pass  along  the  pathways  overgrown ; 
Of  all  the  flowers  a  single  poppy  there 
Droops  her  tired  head,  a  faded  flower  and  fair, 
One  poppy  that  the  wandering  breeze  hath  sown. 

Here  be  no  roses,  and  thou  lack'st  the  rose, 

No  lilies  fragrant  in  the  lily  bed ; 
One  poppy  in  the  bare  untended  close. 

Droops,  and  the  sun  is  shrouded  overhead ; 
The  grey  sea-mist  upon  the  sea -wind  blows. 

Chill;  and  methinks  the  summer-time  is  dead. 


92 


GRASS  OF  PARNASSUS 

PALE  Star  that  by  the  lochs  of  Galloway, 
In  wet  green  places  'twixt  the  depth  and  height 
Dost  keep  thine  hour  while  Autumn  ebbs  away, 
When  now  the  moors  have  doffed  the  heather  bright. 
Grass  of  Parnassus,  flower  of  my  delight. 
How  gladly  with  the  unpermitted  bay  — 
Garlands  not  mine,  and  leaves  that  not  decay  — 
How  gladly  would  I  twine  thee  if  I  might  1 

The  bays  are  out  of  reach  I     But  far  below 
The  peaks  forbidden  of  the  Muses'  Hill, 

Grass  of  Parnassus,  thy  returning  snow 
Between  September  and  October  chill 

Doth  speak  to  me  of  Autumns  long  ago, 
And  these  kind  faces  that  are  with  me  still. 


rO 


THREE  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  POPE 

FROM  mortal  Gratitude,  decide,  my  Pope, 
Have  Wits  Immortal  more  to  fear  or  hope  ? 
Wits  toil  and  travail  round  the  Plant  of  Fame, 
Their  Works  its  Garden,  and  its  Growth  their  Aim, 
Then  Commentators,  in  unwieldy  Dance, 
Break  down  the  Barriers  of  the  trim  Pleasance, 
Pursue  the  Poet,  like  Actaeon's  Hounds, 
Beyond  the  fences  of  his  Garden  Grounds, 
Rend  from  the  singing  Robes  each  borrowed  Gem, 
Rend  from  the  laurel'd  Brows  the  Diadem, 
And,  if  one  Rag  of  Character  they  spare. 
Comes  the  Biographer,  and  strips  it  bare  1 

Such,  Pope,  has  been  thy  Fortune,  such  thy  Doom. 
Swift  the  Ghouls  gathered  at  the  Poet's  Tomb, 
With  Dust  of  Notes  to  clog  each  lordly  Line, 
Warburton,  Warton,  Croker,  Bowles,  combine  1 
Collecting  Cackle,  Johnson  condescends 
To  interview  the  Drudges  of  your  Friends. 
Thus  though  your  Courthope  holds  your  merits  high. 
And  still  proclaims  your  Poems  Poetry^ 
Biographers,  un-Boswell-like,  have  sneered. 
And  Dunces  edit  him  whom  Dunces  feared ! 

"  They  say,*'  "  What  say  they  ? "    Not  in  vain  You  ask ; 
To  tell  you  what  they  say,  behold  my  Task  ! 
"  Methinks  already  I  your  Tears  survey  " 
As  I  repeat  "  the  horrid  Things  they  say." « 

I  Rape  of  the  Lock. 


97 


Comes  El — n  first :  I  fancy  you'll  agree 

Not  frenzied  Dennis  smote  so  fell  as  he  ; 

For  El — n*s  Introduction,  crabbed  and  dry, 

Like  ChurchilPs  Cudgel's '  marked  with  Z/>,  and  Lie  ! 

"  Too  dull  to  know  what  his  own  System  meant, 

Pope  yet  was  skilled  new  Treasons  to  invent ; 

A  Snake  that  puffed  himself  and  stung  his  Friends, 

Few  Lied  so  frequent,  for  such  little  Ends ; 

His  mind,  like  Flesh  inflamed,2  was  raw  and  sore, 

And  still,  the  more  he  writhed,  he  stung  the  more  1 

Oft  in  a  Quarrel,  never  in  the  Right, 

His  Spirit  sank  when  he  was  called  to  fight. 

Pope,  in  the  Darkness  mining  like  a  Mole, 

Forged  on  Himself,  as  from  Himself  he  stole, 

And  what  for  Caryll  once  he  feigned  to  feel. 

Transferred,  in  Letters  never  sent,  to  Steele ! 

Still  he  denied  the  Letters  he  had  writ. 

And  still  mistook  Indecency  for  Wit. 

His  very  Grammar,  so  De  Quincey  cries, 

*  Detains  the  Reader,  and  at  times  defies  1 ' " 

Fierce  El — n  thus :  no  Line  escapes  his  Rage, 
And  furious  Foot-notes  growl  'neath  every  Page : 
See  St-ph-n  next  take  up  the  woful  Tale, 
Prolong  the  Preaching,  and  protract  the  Wail  1 

"  Some  forage  Falsehoods  from  the  North  and  South, 
But  Pope,  poor  D 1,  lied  from  Hand  to  Mouth ;  3 

1  In  Mr.  Hogarth's  Caricatura. 

2  Elwin's  Pope,  ii.  15. 

3  "Poor  Pope  was  always  a  hand-to-mouth  liar."  —  Pope,  by 
Leslie  Stephen,  139. 

98 


i 


Affected,  hypocritical,  and  vain, 

A  Book  in  Breeches,  and  a  Fop  in  Grain ; 

A  Fox  that  found  not  the  high  Clusters  sour, 

The  Fanfaron  of  Vice  beyond  his  power. 

Pope  yet  possessed  "  —  ( the  Praise  will  make  you  start )  - 

**  Mean,  morbid,  vain,  he  yet  possessed  a  Heart  I 

And  still  we  marvel  at  the  Man,  and  still 

Admire  his  Finish,  and  applaud  his  Skill  : 

Though,  as  that  fabled  Barque,  a  phantom  Form, 

Eternal  strains,  nor  rounds  the  Cape  of  Storm, 

Even  so  Pope  strove,  nor  ever  crossed  the  Line 

That  from  the  Noble  separates  the  Fine!  " 

The  Learned  thus,  and  who  can  quite  reply. 
Reverse  the  Judgment,  and  Retort  the  Lie  ? 
You  reap,  in  arm^d  Hates  that  haunt  your  Name, 
Reap  what  you  sowed,  the  Dragon's  Teeth  of  Fame : 
You  could  not  write,  and  from  unenvious  Time 
Expect  the  Wreath  that  crowns  the  lofty  Rhyme, 
You  still  must  fight,  retreat,  attack,  defend, 
And  oft,  to  snatch  a  Laurel,  lose  a  Friend ! 

The  Pity  of  it !     And  the  changing  Taste 

Of  changing  Time  leaves  half  your  Work  a  Waste  ! 

My  Childhood  fled  your  Couplet's  clarion  tone. 

And  sought  for  Homer  in  the  Prose  of  Bohn. 

Still  through  the  Dust  of  that  dim  Prose  appears 

The  Flight  of  Arrows  and  the  Sheen  of  Spears ; 

Still  we  may  trace  what  Hearts  heroic  feel. 

And  hear  the  Bronze  that  hurtles  on  the  Steel ! 

But,  ah,  your  Iliad  seems  a  half-pretence, 

Where  Wits,  not  Heroes,  prove  their  Skill  in  Fence, 


99 


And  great  Achilles'  Eloquence  dotli  show 
As  if  no  Centaur  trained  him,  but  Boileau ! 

Again,  your  Verse  is  orderly,  —  and  more,  — 
'♦  The  Waves  behind  impel  the  Waves  before  ;  " 
Monotonously  musical  they  glide, 
Till  Couplet  unto  Couplet  hath  replied. 
But  turn  to  Homer!     How  his  Verses  sweep! 
Surge  answers  Surge  and  Deep  doth  call  on  Deep ; 
This  Line  in  Foam  and  Thunder  issues  forth. 
Spurred  by  the  West  or  smitten  by  the  North, 
Sombre  in  all  its  sullen  Deeps,  and  all 
Clear  at  the  Crest,  and  foaming  to  the  Fall, 
The  next  with  silver  Murmur  dies  away, 
Like  Tides  that  falter  to  Calypso's  Bay ! 

Thus  Time,  with  sordid  Alchemy  and  dread, 

Turns  half  the  Glory  of  your  Gold  to  Lead ; 

Thus  Time,  —  at  Ronsard's  wreath  that  vainly  bit, — 

Has  marred  the  Poet  to  preserve  the  Wit, 

Whose  Knife  cut  cleanest  with  a  poisoned  pain,  — 

Who  almost  left  on  Addison  a  stain, 

Yet  Thou  ( strange  Fate  that  clings  to  all  of  Thine ! ) 

When  most  a  Wit  dost  most  a  Poet  shine. 

In  Poetry  thy  Dunciad  expires, 

When  Wit  has  shot  "  her  momentary  Fires." 

'Tis  Tragedy  that  watches  by  the  Bed 

"  Where  tawdry  Yellow  strove  with  dirty  Red," 

And  Men,  remembering  all,  can  scarce  deny 

To  lay  the  Laurel  where  thine  Ashes  lie ! 


II 

TO  LORD  BYRON 

MY  Lord, 
( Do  you  remember  how  Leigh  Hunt 
Enraged  you  once  by  writing  My  dear  Byron  ? ) 

Books  have  their  fates,  —  as  mortals  have  who  punt, 
Kndi  yours  have  entered  on  an  age  of  iron. 

Critics  there  be  who  think  your  satire  blunt, 
Your  pathos,  fudge ;  such  perils  must  environ 
Poets  who  in  their  time  were  quite  the  rage, 
Though  now  there's  not  a  soul  to  turn  their  page. 

Yes,  there  is  much  dispute  about  your  worth. 

And  much  is  said  which  you  might  like  to  know 
By  modern  poets  here  upon  the  earth, 

Where  poets  live,  and  love  each  other  so  ; 
And,  in  Elysium,  it  may  move  your  mirth 

To  hear  of  bards  that  pitch  your  praises  low, 
Though  there  be  some  that  for  your  credit  stickle. 

As  —  Glorious  Mat,  —  and  not  inglorious  Nichol. 

( This  kind  of  writing  is  my  pet  aversion, 
I  hate  the  slang,  I  hate  the  personalities, 

I  loathe  the  aimless,  reckless,  loose  dispersion, 
Of  every  rhyme  that  in  the  singer's  wallet  is, 

I  hate  it  as  you  hated  the  Excursion y 
But,  while  no  man  a  hero  to  his  valet  is. 

The  hero's  still  the  model ;  I  indite 

The  kind  of  rhymes  that  Byron  oft  would  write.) 


There's  a  Swiss  critic  whom  I  cannot  rhyme  to, 
One  Scherer,  dry  as  sawdust,  grim  and  prim. 

Of  him  there's  much  to  say,  if  I  had  time  to 
Concern  myself  in  any  wise  with  him. 

He  seems  to  hate  the  heights  he  cannot  climb  to, 
He  thinks  your  poetry  a  coxcomb's  whim, 

A  good  deal  of  his  sawdust  he  has  spilt  on 

Shakespeare,  and  Moliere,  and  you,  and  Milton. 

Ay,  much  his  temper  is  like  Vivien's  mood. 

Which  found  not  Galahad  pure,  nor  Lancelot  brave ; 

Cold  as  a  hailstorm  on  an  April  wood. 
He  buries  poets  in  an  icy  grave. 

His  Essays  —  he  of  the  Genevan  hood ! 
Nothing  so  fine,  but  better  doth  he  crave. 

So  stupid  and  so  solemn  in  his  spite 

He  dares  to  print  that  Moliere  could  not  write ! 

Enough  of  these  excursions  ;  I  was  saying 

That  half  our  English  Bards  are  turned  Reviewers, 

And  Arnold  was  discussing  and  assaying 
The  weight  and  value  of  that  work  of  yours, 

Examining  and  testing  it  and  weighing, 
And  proved,  the  gems  are  pure,  the  gold  endures. 

While  Swinburne  cries  with  an  exceeding  joy. 

The  stones  are  paste,  and  half  the  gold,  alloy. 

In  Byron,  Arnold  finds  the  greatest  force, 

Poetic,  in  this  later  age  of  ours ; 
His  song,  a  torrent  from  a  mountain  source. 

Clear  as  the  crystal,  singing  with  the  showers, 


Sweeps  to  the  sea  in  unrestricted  course 

Through  banks  o*erhung  with  rocks  and  sweet  with 
flowers ; 
None  of  your  brooks  that  modestly  meander, 
But  swift  as  Awe  along  the  Pass  of  Brander. 

And  when  our  century  has  clomb  its  crest, 
And  backward  gazes  o'er  the  plains  of  Time, 

And  counts  its  harvest,  yours  is  still  the  best, 
The  richest  garner  in  the  field  of  rhyme 

( The  metaphoric  mixture,  'tis  conf est, 
Is  all  my  own,  and  is  not  quite  sublime). 

But  fame's  not  yours  alone ;  you  must  divide  all 

The  plums  and  pudding  with  the  Bard  of  Rydal ! 

Wordsworth  and  Byron,  these  the  lordly  names 
And  these  the  gods  to  whom  most  incense  bums. 

"  Absurd !  "  cries  Swinburne,  and  in  anger  flames. 
And  in  an  iEschylean  fury  spurns 

With  impious  foot  your  altar,  and  exclaims 
And  wreathes  his  laurels  on  the  golden  urns 

Where  Coleridge's  and  Shelley's  ashes  lie, 

Deaf  to  the  din  and  heedless  of  the  cry. 

For  Byron  ( Swinburne  shouts )  has  never  woven 
One  honest  thread  of  life  within  his  song ; 

As  Offenbach  is  to  divine  Beethoven 

So  Byron  is  to  Shelley  {This  is  strong  ! ), 

And  on  Parnassus'  peak,  divinely  cloven. 

He  may  not  stand,  or  stands  by  cruel  wrong ; 

For  Byron's  rank  ( the  examiner  has  reckoned ) 

Is  in  the  third  class  or  a  feeble  second. 


103 


"  A  Bemesque  poet "  at  the  very  most, 

And  "  never  earnest  save  in  politics," 
The  Pegasus  that  he  was  wont  to  boast 

A  blundering,  floundering  hackney,  full  of  tricks, 
A  beast  that  must  be  driven  to  the  post 

By  whips  and  spurs  and  oaths  and  kicks  and  sticks, 
A  gasping,  ranting,  broken -winded  brute, 
That  any  j  udge  of  Pegasi  would  shoot ; 

In  sooth,  a  half-bred  Pegasus,  and  far  gone 
In  spavin,  curb,  and  half  a  hundred  woes. 

And  Byron*s  style  is  "jolter -headed  jargon  ;'* 
His  verse  is  **  only  bearable  in  prose." 

So  living  poets  write  of  those  that  are  gone. 
And  o'er  the  Eagle  thus  the  Bantam  crows ; 

And  Swinburne  ends  where  Verisopht  began, 

By  owning  you  "  a  very  clever  man." 

Or  rather  does  not  end :  he  still  must  utter 

A  quantity  of  the  unkindest  things. 
Ah !  were  you  here,  I  marvel,  would  you  flutter 

O'er  such  a  foe  the  tempest  of  your  wings  ? 
'Tis  **  rant  and  cant  and  glare  and  splash  and  splutter  " 

That  rend  the  modest  air  when  Byron  sings. 
There  Swinburne  stops  :  a  critic  rather  fiery. 
Animis  ccelestibus  tantcene  irce  1 

But  whether  he  or  Arnold  in  the  right  is. 
Long  is  the  argument,  the  quarrel  long; 

Non  nobis  est  to  settle  tantas  lites  ; 

No  poet  I,  to  judge  of  right  or  wrong : 

But  of  all  things  I  always  think  a  fight  is 


104 


The  most  unpleasant  in  the  lists  of  song ; 
When  Marsyas  of  old  was  flayed,  Apollo 
Set  an  example  which  we  need  not  follow. 

The  fashion  changes !     Maidens  do  not  wear, 
As  once  they  wore,  in  necklaces  and  lockets 

A  curl  ambrosial  of  Lord  Byron's  hair ; 

**  Don  Juan  "  is  not  always  in  our  pockets  — 

Nay,  a  New  Writer's  readers  do  not  care 

Much  for  your  verse,  but  are  inclined  to  mock  its 

Manners  and  morals.     Ay,  and  most  young  ladies 

To  yours  prefer  the  "  Epic  "  called  "  of  Hades  1 " 

I  do  not  blame  them ;  I'm  inclined  to  think 

That  with  the  reigning  taste  'tis  vain  to  quarrel, 

And  Burns  might  teach  his  votaries  to  drink. 
And  Byron  never  meant  to  make  them  moral. 

You  yet  have  lovers  true,  who  will  not  shrink 
From  lauding  you  and  giving  you  the  laurel ; 

The  Germans  too,  those  men  of  blood  and  iron, 

Of  all  our  poets  chiefly  swear  by  Byron. 

Farewell,  thou  Titan  fairer  than  the  Gods  1 
Farewell,  farewell,  thou  swift  and  lovely  spirit, 

Thou  splendid  warrior  with  the  world  at  odds, 
Unpraised,  unpraisable,  beyond  thy  merit ; 

Chased,  like  Orestes,  by  the  Furies'  rods. 

Like  him  at  length  thy  peace  dost  thou  inherit ! 

Beholding  whom,  men  think  how  fairer  far 

Than  all  the  steadfast  stars  the  wandering  star  1 1 

I  Mr.  Swinburne's  and  Mr.  Arnold's  diverse  views  of  Byron  will 
be  found  in  the  Selections  by  Mr,  Arnold  and  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century. 


105 


Ill 

TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

WISE  Omar,  do  the  Southern  Breezes  fling 
Above  your  Grave,  at  ending  of  the  Spring, 
The  Snowdrift  of  the  Petals  of  the  Rose, 
The  wild  white  Roses  you  were  wont  to  sing  ? 

Far  in  the  South  J  know  a  Land  divine,  i 
And  there  is  many  a  Saint  and  many  a  Shrine, 
And  over  all  the  Shrines  the  Blossom  blows 
Of  Roses  that  were  dear  to  you  as  Wine. 

You  were  a  Saint  of  unbelieving  Days, 
Liking  your  Life  and  happy  in  Men's  Praise ; 

Enough  for  you  the  Shade  beneath  the  Bough, 
Enough  to  watch  the  wild  World  go  its  Ways. 

Dreadless  and  hopeless  thou  of  Heaven  or  Hell, 
Careless  of  Words  thou  hadst  not  Skill  to  spell. 

Content  to  know  not  all  thou  knowest  now, 
What's  Death  ?     Doth  any  Pitcher  dread  the  Well  ? 

The  Pitchers  we,  whose  Maker  makes  them  ill, 
Shall  He  torment  them  if  they  chance  to  spill  ? 

Nay,  like  the  broken  Potsherds  are  we  cast 
Forth  and  forgotten,  —  and  what  will  be  will  I 

I  The  hills  above  San  Remo,  where  rose-bushes  are  planted  by 
the  shrines.  Omar  desired  that  his  grave  might  be  where  the  wind 
would  scatter  rose-leaves  over  it. 


1 06 


So  still  were  we,  before  the  Months  began 
That  rounded  us  and  shaped  us  into  Man. 

So  still  we  shall  be,  surely,  at  the  last, 
Dreamless,  untouched  of  Blessing  or  of  Ban  I 

Ah,  strange  it  seems  that  this  thy  common  Thought  — 
How  all  Things  have  been,  ay,  and  shall  be  nought  — 

Was  ancient  Wisdom  in  thine  ancient  East, 
In  those  old  Days  when  Senlac  Fight  was  fought, 

Which  gave  our  England  for  a  captive  Land 
To  pious  Chiefs  of  a  believing  Band, 

A  gift  to  the  Believer  from  the  Priest, 
Tossed  from  the  holy  to  the  blood-red  Hand  1 » 

Yea,  thou  wert  singing  when  that  Arrow  clave 
Through  Helm  and  Brain  of  him  who  could  not  save 

His  England,  even  of  Harold  Godwin's  son ; 
The  high  Tide  murmurs  by  the  Hero's  Grave !  2 

And  thou  wert  wreathing  Roses  —  who  can  tell  ?  — 
Or  chanting  for  some  Girl  that  pleased  thee  well. 

Or  satst  at  Wine  in  Nashapiir,  when  dun 
The  twilight  veiled  the  Field  where  Harold  fell ! 

The  salt  Sea-waves  above  him  rage  and  roam ! 
Along  the  white  Walls  of  his  guarded  Home 

No  Zephyr  stirs  the  Rose,  but  o'er  the  Wave 
The  wild  Wind  beats  the  Breakers  into  Foam  I 

I  Omar  was  contemporary  with  the  battle  of  Hastings. 
2  Per  mandata  Ducts,  Rex  hie,  Heralde,  quiescis, 
Ut  eustos  maneas  littoris  et  pelagi. 


107 


And  dear  to  him,  as  Roses  were  to  thee, 
Rings  the  long  Roar  of  Onset  of  the  Sea ; 

The  Swan's  Path  of  his  Fathers  is  his  Grave : 
His  Sleep,  methinks,  is  sound  as  thine  can  be. 

His  was  the  Age  of  Faith,  when  all  the  West 
Looked  to  the  Priest  for  Torment  or  for  Rest; 

And  thou  wert  living  then,  and  didst  not  heed 
The  Saint  who  banned  thee  or  the  Saint  who  blessed  1 

Ages  of  Progress !     These  eight  hundred  Years 
Hath  Europe  shuddered  with  her  Hopes  or  Fears, 

And  now  !  to  thee  she  listeneth  indeed,  — 
To  thee^  and  half  believeth  what  she  hears ! 

Hadst  thou  the  Secret  ?    Ah,  and  who  may  tell  ? 
"  An  Hour  we  have,"  thou  saidst ;  "  Ah,  waste  it  well ! " 

An  Hour  we  have,  and  yet  Eternity 
Looms  o*er  us,  and  the  Thought  of  Heaven  or  Hell ! 

Nay,  we  can  never  be  as  wise  as  thou, 

O  idle  Singer  *neath  the  blossomed  Bough. 

Nay,  and  we  cannot  be  content  to  die. 
We  cannot  shirk  the  Questions  "  Where  ? "  and  *'  How  ? " 

Ah,  not  from  learned  Peace  and  gay  Content 
Shall  we  of  England  go  the  way  he  went  — 

The  Singer  of  the  Red  Wine  and  the  Rose  — 
Nay,  otherwise  than  his  our  Day  is  spent  1 

Serene  he  dwelt  in  fragrant  Nashapdr, 

But  we  must  wander  while  the  Stars  endure. 

He  knew  the  Secret  :  we  have  none  that  knows. 
No  Man  so  sure  as  Omar  once  was  sure  I 


RHYMES  OLD  AND  NEW 


TO  E.  M.  S. 

Prima  dicta  mihiy  sumtna  dicenda  Camena. 

THE  years  will  pass,  and  hearts  will  range, 
You  conquer  Time,  and  Care,  and  Change. 
Though  Time  doth  still  delight  to  shed 
The  dust  on  many  a  younger  head ; 
Though  Care,  oft  coming,  hath  the  guile 
From  younger  lips  to  steal  the  smile  ; 
Though  Change  makes  younger  hearts  wax  cold, 
And  sells  new  loves  for  loves  of  old. 
Time,  Change,  nor  Care,  hath  learned  the  art 
To  fleck  your  hair,  to  chill  your  heart. 
To  touch  your  tresses  with  the  snow. 
To  mar  your  mirth  of  long  ago. 
Change,  Care,  nor  Time,  while  life  endure. 
Shall  spoil  our  ancient  friendship  sure. 
The  love  which  flows  from  sacred  springs. 
In  "  old  unhappy  far-off  things,'* 
From  sympathies  in  grief  and  joy. 
Through  all  the  years  of  man  and  boy. 

Therefore,  to  you,  the  rhymes  I  strung 

When  even  this  "  brindled  "  head  was  young 

I  bring,  and  later  rhymes  I  bring 

That  flit  upon  as  weak  a  wing. 

But  still  for  you,  for  yours,  they  sing  ! 


A  SCOT  TO  JEANNE  D'ARC 


D' 


^ARK  Lily  without  blame, 
Not  upon  us  the  shame, 
Whose  sires  were  to  the  Auld  Alliance  true, 
They,  by  the  Maiden's  side, 
Victorious  fought  and  died. 
One  stood  by  thee  that  fiery  torment  through, 

Till  the  White  Dove  from  thy  pure  lips  had  passed. 
And  thou  wert  with  thine  own  St.  Catherine  at  the  last. 

Once  only  didst  thou  see 

In  artist's  imagery, 
Thine  own  face  painted,  and  that  precious  thing 

Was  in  an  Archer's  hand 

From  the  leal  Northern  land. 
Alas,  what  price  would  not  thy  people  bring 

To  win  that  portrait  of  the  ruinous 
Gulf  of  devouring  years  that  hide  the  Maid  from  us ! 

Born  of  a  lowly  line, 

Noteless  as  once  was  thine. 
One  of  that  name  I  would  were  kin  to  me. 

Who,  in  the  Scottish  Guard 

Won  this  for  his  reward. 
To  fight  for  France,  and  memory  of  thee : 
Not  upon  us,  dark  Lily  without  blame. 
Not  on  the  North  may  fall  the  shadow  of  that  shame. 

On  France  and  England  both 
The  shame  of  broken  troth. 
Of  coward  hate  and  treason  black  must  be ; 


If  England  slew  thee,  France 

Sent  not  one  word,  one  lance, 
One  coin  to  rescue  or  to  ransom  thee. 

And  still  thy  Church  unto  the  Maid  denies 
The  halo  and  the  palms,  the  Beatific  prize. 

But  yet  thy  people  calls 

Within  the  rescued  walls 
Of  Orleans  ;  and  makes  its  prayer  to  thee ; 

What  though  the  Church  have  chidden 

These  orisons  forbidden, 
Yet  art  thou  with  this  earth's  immortal  Three, 

With  him  in  Athens  that  of  hemlock  died, 
And  with  thy  Master  dear  whom  the  world  crucified. 


"3 


SEEKERS  FOR  A  CITY 


"  Believe  me,  if  that  blissful,  that  beautiful  place,  were  set 
on  a  hill  visible  to  all  the  world,  I  should  long  ago  have 
journeyed  thither.  .  .  .  But  the  number  and  variety  of  the 
ways !  For  you  know.  There  is  but  one  road  that  leads  to 
Corinth:' 

Hermotimus  ( Mr.  Pater's  Version). 

"  The  Poet  says,  dear  city  of  Cecro^s ,  and  wilt  thou  not  say, 
dear  city  of  Zeus  f  " 

M.  Antoninus. 


TO  Corinth  leads  one  road,  you  say : 
Is  there  a  Corinth,  or  a  way  ? 
Each  bland  or  blatant  preacher  hath 
His  painful  or  his  primrose  path, 
And  not  a  soul  of  all  of  these 
But  knows  the  city  'twixt  the  seas, 
Her  fair  unnumbered  homes  and  all 
Her  gleaming  amethystine  wall  I 

Blind  are  the  guides  who  know  the  way, 
The  guides  who  write,  and  preach,  and  pray, 
I  watch  their  lives,  and  I  divine 
They  differ  not  from  yours  and  mine ! 

One  man  we  knew,  and  only  one. 

Whose  seeking  for  a  city's  done, 

For  what  he  greatly  sought  he  found, 

A  city  girt  with  fire  around, 

A  city  in  an  empty  land 

Between  the  wastes  of  sky  and  sand, 

114 


A  city  on  a  river -side, 

Where  by  the  folk  he  loved,  he  died.* 

Alas  I  it  is  not  ours  to  tread 
That  path  wherein  his  life  he  led, 
Not  ours  his  heart  to  dare  and  feel, 
Keen  as  the  fragrant  Syrian  steel ; 
Yet  are  we  not  quite  city -less. 
Not  wholly  left  in  our  distress  — 
Is  it  not  said  by  One  of  old, 

Sheep  have  I  of  another  fold  ? 
Ah  I  faint  of  heart,  and  weak  of  will, 
For  us  there  is  a  city  still ! 
Dear  city  of  Zeus^  the  Stoic  says,* 
The  Voice  from  Rome's  imperial  days, 
In  Thee  meet  all  things^  and  disperse^ 
In  Thee ^ for  Thee^  O  Universe! 
To  me  alPs  fruit  thy  seasons  bring. 
Alike  thy  summer  and  thy  spring ; 
The  winds  that  wail,  the  suns  that  burn, 
From  Thee  proceed,  to  Thee  return. 

Dear  city  of  Zeus,  shall  we  not  say. 
Home  to  which  none  can  lose  the  way  I 
Bom  in  that  city's  flaming  bound, 
We  do  not  find  her,  but  are  found. 
Within  her  wide  and  viewless  wall 
The  Universe  is  girdled  all. 


1  January  26,  1885. 

2  M.  Antoninus,  iv.  23. 


"5 


All  joys  and  pains,  all  wealth  and  dearth, 
All  things  that  travail  on  the  earth, 
God's  will  they  work,  if  God  there  be, 
If  not,  what  is  my  life  to  me  ? 

Seek  we  no  further,  but  abide 
Within  this  city  great  and  wide. 
In  her  and  for  her  living,  we 
Have  no  less  joy  than  to  be  free; 
Nor  death  nor  grief  can  quite  appal 
The  folk  that  dwell  within  her  wall, 
Nor  aught  but  with  our  will  befall 


ii6 


TO  RHODOCLEIA 

ON   HER   MELANCHOLY   SINGING 

(Rhodocleia  was  beloved  by  Rufinus,  one  of  the  late  poets  of 
the  Greek  Anthology. ) 

STILL,  Rhodocleia,  brooding  on  the  dead, 
Still  singing  of  the  meads  of  asphodel, 
Lands  desolate  of  delight  ? 
Say,  hast  thou  dreamed  of,  or  remembered, 
The  shores  where  shadows  dwell, 

Nor  know  the  sun,  nor  see  the  stars  of  night  ? 

There,  *midst  thy  music,  doth  thy  spirit  gaze 

As  a  girl  pines  for  home, 

Looking  along  the  way  that  she  hath  come. 
Sick  to  return,  and  counts  the  weary  days ! 
So  wouldst  thou  flee 

Back  to  the  multitude  whose  days  are  done, 
Wouldst  taste  the  fruit  that  lured  Persephone, 
The  sacrament  of  death ;  and  die,  and  be 

No  more  in  the  wind  and  sun ! 

A 

Thou  hast  not  dreamed  it,  but  remembered ! 

I  know  thou  hast  been  there, 
Hast  seen  the  stately  dwellings  of  the  dead 

Rise  in  the  twilight  air, 
And  cross  the  shadowy  bridge  the  spirits  tread, 

And  climbed  the  golden  stair  1 

Nay,  by  thou  cloudy  hair 

And  lips  that  were  so  fair, 

117 


Sad  lips  now  mindful  of  some  ancient  smart, 
And  melancholy  eyes,  the  haunt  of  Care, 

I  know  thee  who  thou  art  1 

That  Rhodocleia,  Glory  of  the  Rose, 

Of  Hellas,  ere  her  close, 

That  Rhodocleia  who,  when  all  was  done 
The  golden  time  of  Greece,  and  fallen  her  sun. 

Swayed  her  last  poet's  heart. 

With  roses  did  he  woo  thee,  and  with  song. 

With  thine  own  rose,  and  with  the  lily  sweet. 
The  dark-eyed  violet. 
Garlands  of  wind-flowers  wet, 
And  fragrant  love-lamps  that  the  whole  night  long 

Burned  till  the  dawn  was  burning  in  the  skies. 
Praising  thy  golden  eyes. 
And  feet  more  silvery  than  Thetis'*  feet ! 

But  thou  didst  die  and  flit 

Among  the  tribes  outworn. 

The  unavailing  myriads  of  the  past : 

Oft  he  beheld  thy  face  in  dreams  of  mom. 
And,  waking,  wept  for  it, 

Till  his  own  time  came  at  last. 

And  then  he  sought  thee  in  the  dusky  land  I 
Wide  are  the  populous  places  of  the  dead 
Where  souls  on  earth  once  wed 

May  never  meet,  nor  each  take  other's  hand, 
Each  far  from  the  other  fled  I 

So  all  in  vain  he  sought  for  thee,  but  thou 
Didst  never  taste  of  the  Lethaean  stream, 


ii8 


Nor  that  forgetful  fruit, 

The  mystic  pomegranate ; 
But  from  the  Mighty  Warden  fledst ;  and  now, 

The  fugitive  of  Fate, 

Thou  farest  in  our  life  as  in  a  dream, 
Still  wandering  with  thy  lute, 
Like  that  sweet  paynim  lady  of  old  song, 
Who  sang  and  wandered  long, 

For  love  of  her  Aucassin,  seeking  him ! 
So  with  thy  minstrelsy 

Thou  roamest,  dreaming  of  the  country  dim. 
Below  the  veiled  sky  I 

There  doth  thy  lover  dwell. 

Singing,  and  seeking  still  to  find  thy  face 
In  that  forgetful  place : 

Thou  shalt  not  meet  him  here. 
Not  till  thy  singing  clear 
Through  all  the  murmur  of  the  streams  of  hell 

Wins  to  the  Maiden's  ear  1 
May  she,  perchance,  have  pity  on  thee  and  call 

Thine  eager  spirit  to  sit  beside  her  feet, 
Passing  throughout  the  long  unechoing  hall 
Up  to  the  shadowy  throne. 

Where  the  lost  lovers  of  the  ages  meet ; 
Till  then  thou  art  alone  1 


119 


ANOTHER  WAY 

COME  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and tben. 
One  saith,  /  shall  he  well  again, 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 

Nay,  come  not  thou  in  dreams,  my  sweet, 
With  shadowy  robes,  and  silent  feet, 
And  with  the  voice,  and  with  the  eyes 
That  greet  me  in  a  soft  surprise. 

Last  night,  last  night,  in  dreams  we  met. 
And  how,  to-day,  shall  I  forget. 
Or  how,  remembering,  restrain 
Mine  incommunicable  pain  ? 

Nay,  where  thy  land  and  people  are. 
Dwell  thou  remote,  apart,  afar, 
Nor  mingle  with  the  shapes  that  sweep 
The  melancholy  ways  of  Sleep. 

But  if,  perchance,  the  shadows  break. 
If  dreams  depart,  and  men  awake, 
If  face  to  face  at  length  we  see. 
Be  thine  the  voice  to  welcome  me. 


CLEVEDON  CHURCH 

IN    MEMORIAM 


WESTWARD  I  watch  the  low  green  hills  of  Wales, 
The  low  sky  silver  grey, 
The  turbid  Channel  with  the  wandering  sails 

Moans  through  the  winter  day. 
There  is  no  colour  but  one  ashen  light 

On  tower  and  lonely  tree, 
The  little  church  upon  the  windy  height 

Is  grey  as  sky  or  sea. 
But  there  hath  he  that  woke  the  sleepless  Love 

Slept  through  these  fifty  years, 
There  is  the  grave  that  has  been  wept  above 

With  more  than  mortal  tears. 
And  far  below  I  hear  the  Channel  sweep 

And  all  his  waves  complain, 
As  Hallam's  dirge  through  all  the  years  must  keep 

Its  monotone  of  pain. 


Grey  sky,  brown  waters,  as  a  bird  that  flies. 

My  heart  flits  forth  from  these 
Back  to  the  winter  rose  of  northern  skies, 

Back  to  the  northern  seas. 
And  lo,  the  long  waves  of  the  ocean  beat 

Below  the  minster  grey, 
Caverns  and  chapels  worn  of  saintly  feet, 

And  knees  of  them  that  pray. 


And  I  remember  me  how  twain  were  one 

Beside  that  ocean  dim, 
I  count  the  years  passed  over  since  the  sun 

That  lights  me  looked  on  him, 
And  dreaming  of  the  voice  that,  save  in  sleep, 

Shall  greet  me  not  again. 
Far,  far  below  I  hear  the  Channel  sweep 

And  all  his  waves  complain. 


MARTIAL  IN  TOWN 

LAST  night,  within  the  stifling  train, 
Lit  by  the  foggy  lamp  o'erhead, 
Sick  of  the  sad  Last  News,  I  read 
Verse  of  that  joyous  child  of  Spain, 

Who  dwelt  when  Rome  was  waxing  cold. 
Within  the  Roman  din  and  smoke. 
And  like  my  heart  to  me  they  spoke. 

These  accents  of  his  heart  of  old :  — 

Brother,  had  we  hut  time  to  live^ 
And  fleet  the  careless  hours  together , 

IVith  all  that  leisure  has  to  give 
Of  perfect  life  and  peaceful  weather  y 

The  Rich  MatCs  halls^  the  anxious  faces^ 
The  wearj/  Forum,  courts,  and  cases 

Should  know  us  not ;  hut  quiet  nooks. 
But  summer  shade  hy  field  and  well, 

But  country  rides,  and  talk  of  hooks, 
At  home,  with  these,  we  fain  would  dwell! 

Now  neither  lives,  hut  day  by  day 
Sees  the  suns  wasting  in  the  west. 

And  feels  their  flight,  and  doth  delay 
To  lead  the  life  he  loveth  best. 

So  from  thy  city  prison  broke, 
Martial,  thy  wail  for  life  misspent. 

And  so,  through  London's  noise  and  smoke 
My  heart  replies  to  the  lament. 


123 


For  dear  as  Tagus  with  his  gold, 
And  swifter  Salo,  were  to  thee, 

So  dear  to  me  the  woods  that  fold 
The  streams  that  circle  Femielea ! 


124 


\ 


SCYTHE  SONG 

MOWERS,  weary  and  brown,  and  blithe. 
What  is  the  word  methinks  ye  know. 
Endless  over -word  that  the  Scythe 

Sings  to  the  blades  of  the  grass  below  ? 
Scythes  that  swing  in  the  grass  and  clover, 

Something,  still,  they  say  as  they  pass ; 
What  is  the  word  that,  over  and  over. 

Sings  the  Scythe  to  the  flowers  and  grass  ? 

Hush^  ah  hush,  the  Scythes  are  saying. 

Hush,  and  heed  not,  and  fall  asleep  ; 
Hush,  they  say  to  the  grasses  swaying, 

Hush,  they  sing  to  the  clover  deep  1 
Hush  —  *tis  the  lullaby  Time  is  singing  — 

Hush,  and  heed  not,  for  all  things  pass. 
Hush,  ah  hush  !  and  the  Scythes  are  swinging 

Over  the  clover,  over  the  grass ! 


125 


THE  SONG  OF  ORPHEUS 

FROM  THE  ORPHIC  ARGONAUTICA 

SLEEP !  king  of  gods  and  men ! 
Come  to  my  call  again, 
Swift  over  field  and  fen, 

Mountain  and  deep  : 
Come,  bid  the  waves  be  still ; 
Sleep,  streams  on  height  and  hill ; 
Beasts,  birds,  and  snakes,  thy  will 

Conquereth,  Sleep ! 
Come  on  thy  golden  wings, 
Come  ere  the  swallow  sings, 
Lulling  all  living  things. 

Fly  they  or  creep  ! 
Come  with  thy  leaden  wand, 
Come  with  thy  kindly  hand, 
Soothing  on  sea  or  land 

Mortals  that  weep. 
Come  from  the  cloudy  west. 
Soft  over  brain  and  breast. 
Bidding  the  Dragon  rest, 

Come  to  me,  Sleep ! 


126 


FROM  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

RHYMED   FROM   THE   PROSE   VERSION   OF 
MR.   JUSTIN    HUNTLY   MCCARTHY 

THE  Paradise  they  bid  us  fast  to  win 
Hath  Wine  and  Women ;  is  it  then  a  sin 
To  live  as  we  shall  live  in  Paradise, 
And  make  a  Heaven  of  Earth,  ere  Heaven  begin  ? 

The  wise  may  search  the  world  from  end  to  end, 
From  dusty  nook  to  dusty  nook,  my  friend. 

And  nothing  better  find  than  girls  and  wine, 
Of  all  the  things  they  neither  make  nor  mend. 

Nay,  listen  thou  who,  walking  on  Life's  way. 
Hast  seen  no  lovelock  of  thy  love's  grow  grey 
Listen,  and  love  thy  life,  and  let  the  Wheel 
Of  Heaven  go  spinning  its  own  wilful  way. 

Man  is  a  flagon,  and  his  soul  the  wine, 
Man  is  a  lamp,  wherein  the  Soul  doth  shine, 
Man  is  a  shaken  reed,  wherein  that  wind. 
The  Soul,  doth  ever  rustle  and  repine. 

Each  morn  I  say,  to-night  I  will  repent. 
Repent  1  and  each  night  go  the  way  I  went  — 

The  way  of  Wine ;  but  now  that  reigns  the  rose. 
Lord  of  Repentance,  rage  not,  but  relent. 

I  wish  to  drink  of  wine  —  so  deep,  so  deep  — 
The  scent  of  wine  my  sepulchre  shall  steep. 


127 


And  they,  the  revellers  by  Omar*s  tomb, 
Shall  breathe  it,  and  in  Wine  shall  fall  asleep. 

Before  the  rent  walls  of  a  ruined  town 

Lay  the  King's  skull,  whereby  a  bird  flew  down 

"  And  where,"  he  sang,  "  is  all  thy  clash  of  arms  ? 
Where  the  sonorous  trumps  of  thy  renown  ?'* 


128 


LES  ROSES  DE  SADI 

THIS  morning  I  vowed  I  would  bring  thee  my  Roses, 
They  were  thrust  in  the  band  that  my  bodice  encloses, 
But  the  breast -knots  were  broken,  the  Roses  went  free. 

The  breast-knots  were  broken ;  the  Roses  together 
Floated  forth  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  and  the  weather. 
And  they  drifted  afar  down  the  streams  of  the  sea. 

And  the  sea  was  as  red  as  when  sunset  uncloses. 
But  my  raiment  is  sweet  from  the  scent  of  the  Roses, 
Thou  shalt  know,  Love,  how  fragrant  a  memory  can  be. 


129 


THE  HAUNTED  TOWER 

SUGGESTED   BY  A    POEM   OF 
TH^OPHILE   GAUTIER 

IN  front  he  saw  the  donjon  tall 
Deep  in  the  woods,  and  stayed  to  scan 
The  guards  that  slept  along  the  wall, 

Or  dozed  upon  the  bartizan. 
He  marked  the  drowsy  flag  that  hung 

Unwaved  by  wind,  unfrayed  by  shower, 
He  listened  to  the  birds  that  sung 

Go  forth  and  win  the  haunted  tower  ! 
The  tangled  brake  made  way  for  him, 

The  twisted  brambles  bent  aside  ; 
And  lo,  he  pierced  the  forest  dim, 

And  lo,  he  won  the  fairy  bride ! 
For  he  was  young,  but  ah !  we  find. 

All  we,  whose  beards  are  flecked  with  grey. 
Our  fairy  castle's  far  behind. 

We  watch  it  from  the  darkling  way  : 
*Twas  ours,  that  palace,  in  our  youth. 

We  revelled  there  in  happy  cheer : 
Who  scarce  dare  visit  now  in  sooth, 

Le  Vieux  Chateau  de  Souvenir ! 
For  not  the  boughs  of  forest  green 

Begird  that  castle  far  away. 
There  is  a  mist  where  we  have  been 

That  weeps  about  it,  cold  and  grey, 
And  if  we  seek  to  travel  back 

'Tis  through  a  thicket  dim  and  sere, 

130 


With  many  a  grave  beside  the  track, 

And  many  a  haunting  form  of  fear. 
Dead  leaves  are  wet  among  the  moss, 

With  weed  and  thistle  overgrown  — 
A  ruined  barge  within  the  fosse, 

A  castle  built  of  crumbling  stone  1 
The  drawbridge  drops  from  rusty  chains. 

There  comes  no  challenge  from  the  hold ; 
No  squire,  nor  dame,  nor  knight  remains, 

Of  all  who  dwelt  with  us  of  old. 
And  there  is  silence  in  the  hall 

No  sound  of  songs,  no  ray  of  fire ; 
But  gloom  where  all  was  glad,  and  all 

Is  darkened  with  a  vain  desire. 
And  every  picture's  fading  fast. 

Of  fair  Jehanne,  or  Cydalise. 
Lo,  the  white  shadows  hurrying  past, 

Below  the  boughs  of  dripping  trees ! 


Ah,  rise,  and  march,  and  look  not  back, 
Now  the  long  way  has  brought  us  here ; 

We  may  not  turn  and  seek  the  track 
To  the  old  Chateau  de  Souvenir  1 


131 


BOAT-SONG 

ADRIFT,  with  Starlit  skies  above, 
With  starlit  seas  below, 
We  move  with  all  the  suns  that  move, 

With  all  the  seas  that  flow : 
For,  bond  or  free,  earth,  sky,  and  sea. 

Wheel  with  one  central  will, 

And  thy  heart  drifteth  on  to  me, 

And  only  Time  stands  still. 

Between  two  shores  of  death  we  drift. 

Behind  are  things  forgot. 
Before,  the  tide  is  racing  swift 

To  shores  man  knoweth  not. 
Above,  the  sky  is  far  and  cold. 

Below,  the  moaning  sea 
Sweeps  o'er  the  loves  that  were  of  old. 

But  thou,  Love,  love  thou  me. 

Ah,  lonely  are  the  ocean  ways. 

And  dangerous  the  deep, 
And  frail  the  fairy  barque  that  strays 

Above  the  seas  asleep. 
Ah,  toil  no  more  with  helm  or  oar. 

We  drift,  or  bond  or  free. 
On  yon  far  shore  the  breakers  roar, 

But  thou.  Love,  love  thou  me ! 


13* 


LOST  LOVE 

WHO  wins  his  Love  shall  lose  her, 
Who  loses  her  shall  gain, 
For  still  the  spirit  woos  her, 

A  soul  without  a  stain ; 
And  Memory  still  pursues  her 
With  longings  not  in  vain  1 

He  loses  her  who  gains  her, 

Who  watches  day  by  day 
The  dust  of  time  that  stains  her. 

The  griefs  that  leave  her  grey, 
The  flesh  that  yet  enchains  her 

Whose  grace  hath  passed  away  I 

Oh,  happier  he  who  gains  not 
The  Love  some  seem  to  gain : 

The  joy  that  custom  stains  not 
Shall  still  with  him  remain, 

The  loveliness  that  wanes  not. 
The  Love  that  ne'er  can  wane. 

In  dreams  she  grows  not  older 
The  lands  of  Dream  among, 

Though  all  the  world  wax  colder. 
Though  all  the  songs  be  sung. 

In  dreams  doth  he  behold  her 
Still  fair  and  kind  and  young. 


133 


THE  PROMISE  OF  HELEN 

WHOM  hast  thou  longed  for  most, 
True  love  of  mine  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  loved  and  lost  ? 
Lo,  she  is  thine ! 

She  that  another  wed 

Breaks  from  her  vow ; 
She  that  hath  long  been  dead 

Wakes  for  thee  now. 

Dreams  haunt  the  hapless  bed, 

Ghosts  haunt  the  night, 
Life  crowns  her  living  head, 

Love  and  Delight. 

Nay,  not  a  dream  nor  ghost, 

Nay,  but  Divine, 
She  that  was  loved  and  lost 

Waits  to  be  thine  ! 


134 


ON  CALAIS  SANDS 

ON  Calais  Sands  the  grey  began, 
Then  rosy  red  above  the  grey, 
The  mom  with  many  a  scarlet  van 

Leaped,  and  the  world  was  glad  with  May  1 
The  little  waves  along  the  bay 

Broke  white  upon  the  shelving  strands  ; 
The  sea-mews  flitted  white  as  they 
On  Calais  Sands  I 

On  Calais  Sands  must  man  with  man 
Wash  honour  clean  in  blood  to-day; 

On  spaces  wet  from  waters  wan 

How  white  the  flashing  rapiers  play, 

Parry,  riposte  !  and  lunge !     The  fray 
Shifts  for  a  while,  then  mournful  stands 

The  Victor :  life  ebbs  fast  away 
On  Calais  Sands ! 

On  Calais  Sands  a  little  space 

Of  silence,  then  the  plash  and  spray, 

The  sound  of  eager  waves  than  ran 
To  kiss  the  perfumed  locks  astray. 

To  touch  these  lips  that  ne'er  said  "  Nay," 
To  dally  with  the  helpless  hands  ; 

Till  the  deep  sea  in  silence  lay 
On  Calais  Sands ! 

Between  the  lilac  and  the  may 

She  waits  her  love  from  alien  lands; 
Her  love  is  colder  than  the  clay 
On  Calais  Sands  I 


135 


POSCIMUR 

FROM    HORACE 

HUSH,  for  they  call !     If  in  the  shade, 
My  lute,  we  twain  have  idly  strayed, 
And  song  for  many  a  season  made, 

Once  more  reply ; 
Once  more  we'll  play  as  we  have  played, 
My  lute  and  I ! 

Roman  the  song :  the  strain  you  know, 
The  Lesbian  wrought  it  long  ago. 
Now  singing  as  he  charged  the  foe, 

Now  in  the  bay, 
Where  safe  in  the  shore -water's  flow 

His  galleys  lay. 

So  sang  he  Bacchus  and  the  Nine, 
And  Venus  and  her  boy  divine. 
And  Lycus  of  the  dusky  eyne. 

The  dusky  hair ; 
So  shalt  thou  sing,  ah.  Lute  of  mine. 

Of  all  things  fair  ; 

Apollo's  glory !     Sounding  shell, 

Thou  lute,  to  Jove  desirable, 

When  soft  thine  accents  sigh  and  swell 

At  festival  — 
Delight  more  dear  than  words  can  tell. 

Attend  my  call ! 


136 


ON  THE  GARLAND  SENT  TO 
RHODOCLEIA 


GOLDEN   EYES 

4  4   A   H,  Golden  Eyes,  to  win  you  yet, 

iV     I  bring  mine  April  coronet. 
The  lovely  blossoms  of  the  spring, 
For  you  I  weave,  to  you  I  bring 
These  roses  with  the  lilies  set. 
The  dewy  dark  -eyed  violet. 
Narcissus,  and  the  wind-flower  wet : 
Wilt  thou  disdain  mine  offering  ? 
Ah,  Golden  Eyes  1 

"  Crowned  with  thy  lover's  flowers,  forget 
The  pride  wherein  thy  heart  is  set, 
For  thou,  like  these  or  anything. 
Hast  but  a  moment  of  thy  spring. 
Thy  spring,  and  then  —  the  long  regret  1 
Ah,  Golden  Eyes  1 " 


137 


A  GALLOWAY  GARLAND 

WE  know  not,  on  these  hills  of  ours, 
The  fabled  asphodel  of  Greece, 
That  fiUeth  with  immortal  flowers 
Fields  where  the  heroes  are  at  peace ! 
Not  ours  are  myrtle  buds  like  these 
That  breathe  o'er  isles  where  memories  dwell 
Of  Sappho,  in  enchanted  seas ! 

We  meet  not,  on  our  upland  moor, 

The  singing  Maid  of  Helicon, 
You  may  not  hear  her  music  pure 

Float  on  the  mountain  meres  withdrawn ; 

The  Muse  of  Greece,  the  Muse  is  gone ! 
But  we  have  songs  that  please  us  well 

And  flowers  we  love  to  look  upon. 

More  sweet  than  Southern  myrtles  far 

The  bruised  Marsh-myrtle  breatheth  keen ; 

Parnassus  names  the  flower,  the  star. 
That  shines  among  the  well-heads  green 
The  bright  Marsh-asphodels  between  — 

Marsh-myrtle  and  Marsh -asphodel 

May  crown  the  Northern  Muse  a  queen. 


»38 


ZIMBABWE 

(The  ruined  Gold  Cities  of  Rhodesia.    The  Ophir  of 
Scripture.) 

INTO  the  darkness  whence  they  came, 
They  passed,  their  country  knoweth  none. 
They  and  their  gods  without  a  name 

Partake  the  same  oblivion. 
Their  work  they  did,  their  work  is  done, 
Whose  gold,  it  may  be,  shone  like  fire 
About  the  brows  of  Solomon, 

And  in  the  House  of  God's  Desire. 

Hence  came  the  altar  all  of  gold, 

The  hinges  of  the  Holy  Place, 
The  censer  with  the  fragrance  rolled 

Skyward  to  seek  Jehovah's  face ; 
The  golden  Ark  that  did  encase 

The  Law  within  Jerusalem, 
The  lilies  and  the  rings  to  grace 

The  High  Priest's  robe  and  diadem. 

The  pestilence,  the  desert  spear, 

Smote  them  ;  they  passed,  with  none  to  tell 
The  names  of  them  who  laboured  here : 

Stark  walls  and  crumbling  crucible. 
Strait  gates,  and  graves,  and  ruined  well, 

Abide,  dumb  monuments  of  old. 
We  know  but  that  men  fought  and  fell, 

Like  us,  like  us,  for  love  of  Gold. 


139 


TUSITALA 

WE  spoke  of  a  rest  in  a  fairy  knowe  of  the  North, 
but  he, 
Far  from  the  firths  of  the  East,  and  the  racing  tides 
of  the  West, 
Sleeps  in  the  sight  and  the  sound  of  the  infinite  South- 
ern Sea, 
Weary  and  well  content  in  his  grave  on  the  Vaea 
crest. 

Tusitala,  the  lover  of  children,  the  teller  of  tales, 
Giver  of  counsel  and  dreams,  a  wonder,  a  world's 
delight, 
Looks  o'er  the  labours  of  men  in  the  plain  and  the  hill ; 
and  the  sails 
Pass  and  repass  on  the  sea  that  he  loved,  in  the  day 
and  the  night. 

Winds  of  the  West  and  the  East  in  the  rainy  season 
blow 
Heavy  with  perfume,  and  all  his  fragrant  woods  are    J 
wet,  ] 

Winds  of  thfe  East  and  West  as  they  wander  to  and  for. 
Bear  him  the  love  of  the  land  he  loved,  and  the  long 
regret. 

Once  we  were  kindest,  he  said,  when  leagues  of  the 
limitless  sea 
Flowed  between  us,  but  now  that  no  wash  of  the 
wandering  tides 
Sunders  us  each  from  each,  yet  nearer  we  seem  to  be, 
Whom  only  the  unbridged  stream  of  the  river  of 
Death  divides. 


140 


VALE 

ONCE  the  Muse  was  fair. 
Once :  when  we  were  youngy 
Gajp  and  debonair ^ 
Or  with  pensive  air^ 
So  she  came  J  she  sung. 

Often^  through  the  noise 

Of  the  running  stream, 
Would  we  hear  her  voice. 
Hear  it  and  rejoice, 

"  Dream  not  Uwas  a  dream.** 

Could  we  see  her  now 

Come  at  a  command, 
Withered  on  her  brow 
Were  the  wreath,  the  bough 

Broken  in  her  band. 

Nd[;/,  as  erst  the  Morn 

floating  far  away, 
More  in  ruth  than  scorn 
"Left  her  love  outworn. 

Once  his  locks  were  grey. 

So,  for  ever  young, 

^ver  fair,  the  Muse 
'Leaves  us,  who  have  sung 
Till  the  lute*s  unstrung, 

'Doth  her  grace  refuse. 


141 


*Tis  not  she,  but  we^ 

That  are  weary  now  ; 
Vfellf  howe'er  it  he^ 
Her  we  shall  not  see^ 
broken  is  the  hough. 


NOTES 

To  THE  Rbadbr.  —  From  Mr.  Lang's  Ballades  and 
Verses  Vain  (New  York:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
1884),  which  Mr.  Dobson  prepared  for  American 
readers. 

A  Ballade  of  xxii  Ballades.  —  Sir  Frederick 
Pollock  reviewed  the  first  edition  of  Mr.  Lang's 
XXII  Ballades  in  Blue  China  in  the  St.  James' 
Ga^^ette,  3rd  July,  1880,  in  which  review  this  ballade 
appeared.  Mr.  Lang  was  so  pleased  with  the  lines 
that  he  asked  to  have  them  prefixed  to  his  next  edition, 
and  they  accordingly  adorn  the  third  and  every  subse- 
quent issue. 

Dizain.  —  Specially  written  for  XXII  Ballades  in 
Blue  China,  where  it  still  remains  notwithstanding  its 
incorporation  in  Mr.  Dobson's  Collected  Poems. 

Ronsard's  Grave.  —  This  version  ventures  to  con- 
dense the  original  which,  like  most  of  the  works  of  the 
Pleiad,  is  unneccessarily  long. 

The  snow,  and  wind,  and  hail.  Ronsard's  rendering 
of  the  famous  passage  in  Odyssey,  vi.,  about  the  dwell- 
ings of  the  Olympians.  The  vision  of  a  Paradise  of 
learned  lovers  and  poets  constantly  recurs  in  the 
poetry  of  Joachim  du  Bellay,  and  of  Ronsard. 

See  also  Songs  and  Sonnets  of  Pierre  de  Ronsard  .  . 
Selected  and  Translated  into  English  Verse  by  Curtis 
Hidden  Page,  (Boston,  1903.) 

Romance.  —  Suggested  by  a  passage  in  La  Faustin, 
by  M.  E.  de  Goncourt,  a  curious  moment  of  poetry  in 
a  repulsive  piece  of  naturalisme. 

143 


NOTES 

Three  Letters  to  Dead  Authors.  —  These 
three  letters  in  verse  have  heretofore  been  accessible 
only  in  Letters  to  Dead  Authors  (1886  and  later  re- 
issues), of  which  a  delightful  pocket  edition  entitled 
New  and  Old  Letters  to  Dead  Author s^  (London,  1907,) 
is  now  to  be  had  for  two  shillings  net —  in  England ! 

The  first  edition  of  Letters  to  Dead  Authors  was  pub- 
lished in  March,  1886 ;  in  the  second  edition  later  in 
the  same  year  stanzas  4  and  5  of  the  Byron  letter  were 
cancelled. 

These  are  restored  in  all  later  editions.     A  new 
Envoy,  however,  was  added  at  the  end  of  the  second 
edition  which  fails  to  appear  in  any  later  reissue.    It 
is  as  follows : 
Go,  Letters  to  the  irresponsive  Ghosts, 

That  scarce  will  heed  them  less  than  living  Men. 
For  now  new  Books  come  thicker  than  on  Coasts 

And  meads  of  Asia,  throng  the  sea-birds  when 
The  snow-wind  drives  them  South  in  clamorous  Hosts 

From  their  salt  marshes  by  Cayster's  Fen. 


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